Distorted Affect
by Harriet Vane
Summary: Peter returns from a weekend away to find a new Fringe case waiting for him. But an unexplainable attack on Walter and ominous involvement with Massive Dynamic divides the team, forcing Peter to retrace his steps and Olivia to follow him.
1. Prologue

**Author's notes:** This is a completed 9 chapter story. I'll be posting a chapter every Friday from now until the beginning of June.

A special thank you to My Beautiful Ending for beta reading the story.

**Disclaimer:** The Characters are not mine, I'm not making any money, disclaimer, blah blah blah.

**Historian's notes:** This story takes place towards the end of the first season, when we still believed that Massive Dynamic might just be evil, and Charlie was still hanging around keeping Olivia honest.

Prologue

Peter winced as a flashlight was shone in his eyes. "Who are you?" he demanded, not really expecting an answer. "What do you want?"

The privet security guards remained silent as the larger one came forward, grabbed Peter by the bicep, and hauled him out of the dark closet he'd been locked in for the past hour. The burning pain from his rib cage flared and he had to grit his teeth to keep from screaming.

"If you do not resist, there will be no reason to harm you," a man said coolly form somewhere behind him. The man had an interesting accent – distinctive. Only a half a dozen people on earth would have an accent like that. Peter had no idea who that man was, but he was sure he knew where he came from. Knowing that, however, just made the entire situation more mystifying. Why and they brought him here, to an abandoned industrial warehouse? And, what on earth did he want?

"Look, I'm not sure who you think I am," Peter said as the guards, one holding each arm, dragged him across the warehouse floor, presumably to the door on the other side that had light streaming out from the crack underneath it. "But whatever you want, I can't get it for you. I was sent down here with very limited authority. I did what I came to do, and all I want to do is leave."

"I'm sure that's true," the man replied dryly.

"The point is," Peter insisted. "I'm just a middle man, a face. If you want to send a message that someone will listen to, Hollingbrook . . ."

"Hollingbrook is a pawn," the man said with a knowing chuckle. "And you are a rook. A more valuable piece, if I am right."

For a very short moment, Peter considered attempting an escape. If this man really thought Peter was valuable, he'd order the guards not to use their old and battered AK-47s. But, Peter reasoned, the violence of his capture and the harshness of his treatment thus far indicated that they would not hesitate to hurt him. Valuable or not, sub-machine guns or not, it was still three able-bodied men against a battered one.

One of the guards opened the door and, once again, Peter winced at the sudden flood of white light. The other guard pulled him forward and, as Peter blinked, his eyes adjusting to the blazingly brightness, he could hear the door close behind them and the unmistakable thud of a deadbolt sliding into place.

The room was not unlike a dozen others he'd seen through the years – he'd even seen a few in the same incongruous setting. It was a sterile, high tech lab complete with a mess of a chemical set, an oversized computer with an oversized screen streaming information in a matrix-like flow that only a few would be able to comprehend, and most troubling of all, a collection of medical equipment. Even though Peter could name most of the stainless steel instruments, and understood what medical purpose they served, he could not help but be reminded of a medieval torture chamber.

The pudgy, gray-haired scientist in the hidden lab did not turn away from the computer screen. He said something quickly in Spanish, and before Peter could quite figure out what he said, he was ushered to a large white chair that looked like it might have come from a dentist's office – if the dentist felt the need to physically restrain his patients. One guard strapped his hands onto the chair arms with bright red nylon straps as the other one pushed a stainless steel instrument four feet high and composed entirely of insect-like arms closer to the chair. A young woman with a dark complexion, long black hair, and wearing a lab coat with yellow latex gloves approached him with alcoholic wipes and started cleaning his scalp behind his ears.

"_What are you doing?"_ he asked in his poorly accented Spanish. "_Why are you cleaning my head?"_ Neither the girl nor the scientist answered. But the man with the distinctive accent did, from somewhere behind the chair.

"I will not say it will not be painful," the man said. "But you won't remember the pain."

"I don't know what you think you're doing," Peter said, trying not to sound as desperate and terrified as he felt. He'd played the 'powerless' card and it hadn't worked. Perhaps if he played the 'powerful' card, he'd get results. "But I work with the American FBI. They will come looking for me. And when they find you they're going to tear this place apart."

"We're going to save the world," the man said, walking into Peter's line of vision. For the first time, Peter saw his face. As he suspected, the man had dark cinnamon colored skin, thick black hair cropped close to his head, and deep set brown eyes. He looked to be younger than Peter, but still he carried himself with authority. "And you will help us."

"_My friends in America will come for me,"_ Peter said in Spanish, hoping against hope that perhaps he could rattle the guards or the lab assistant. _"They will find you and make you pay for anything you do to me."_

The lab assistant looked spooked by that comment, but she did not hesitate to pick up a small, thin circular tablet, like a catholic communion wafer, and approach Peter slowly. As Peter tried to think of something else he could say, something that might make her afraid enough to leave and delay whatever procedure they intended to perform on him, and buy him just a little more time to come up with that magic threat, or bribe, or compromise that would stop the situation. But, before he could remember the Spanish he would need to offer a compelling alternative, one of the guards stooped down and punched him on his right side, shooting eye-watering pain through his entire body. If his rib had not been broken before, it surely was now.

Peter screamed; he could not help it. The other guard took that opportunity to grab Peter's jaw, holding it firmly, forcing him to keep his mouth open. Even as his head swam, Peter tried to use all his strength to free his head, and close his mouth. But his abdomen and chest were paralyzed with the pain of his broken rib, and his neck muscles were nothing compared to the strong guard's triceps. The lab assistant walked forward and placed the disk on Peter's tongue. He tried to shake it off his tongue, or scrape it off with his teeth, but it dissolved quickly and soon the guard let go of his jaw. Peter gasped for breath as tears streamed down his cheeks. His head still swam with pain but it was starting to swim with something else too. The light in the building started to feel heavy, and the noise of the ventilating fans was palpable – it tasted a little like copper. The pain in his side colored everything and ugly blackish-red, but the lab assistant was still the most beautiful nymph he'd ever seen.

"Now then," said the old scientists, whom Peter thought might possibly be his father. "Let's begin."

To be continued . . .


	2. Welcome Home

**Monday 2:30 p.m.**

Peter walked through Boston's airport eagerly. The leaves were just changing color and the air had an edge to it, so that every breath was exhilarating. He loved Boston at that time of year, and particularly loved being on Harvard's campus when the leaves changed. He could remember going there with his mother to meet his father for lunch or pick him up after work. She'd let him run around in the quad, playing games that were only in his head. When he got a little older, some of the students would invite him to play Frisbee or hacky-sac. People were excited in fall – when he was a kid there was the start of school, and Halloween, and then Thanks Giving and eventually even Christmas to look forward to. Now, as an adult, there was no school, he didn't care about Halloween, he barely noticed thanksgiving, and almost dreaded Christmas. Still, the feelings were imbedded in him. When the temperature dropped and the leaves started to turn, Peter wanted to be outside. He wanted to recapture the rush.

However, as soon as he exited the terminal, he realized that the joys of a Fall day in New England were not to be his.

"Welcome home," Olivia said with a genuinely welcoming smile.

"I get off a plane and find two FBI agents waiting for me," Peter said, glancing between Olivia and Charlie. "I used to have nightmares like this."

"You're father needs you in the lab," Olivia said. "We'll have the airport deliver your luggage to the hotel."

"This is all I have," Peter said, shrugging his shoulder to draw attention to the duffle bag he was carrying.

"Then we should get going," Olivia said.

"So, how was the trip?" Charlie asked conversationally as they walked through the airport towards the parking structure.

"Not bad," Peter said. "A lot of sun, some time on the beach."

"And the Miami nightlife," Charlie prompted.

"We didn't actually get to any clubs," Peter admitted.

"Ah, break a guys heart," Charlie said with a sigh.

"Charlie," Olivia scolded. "Why do you care if Peter went to a night club?"

"Us married men have to live vicariously through our bachelor friends," Charlie said. "And, Peter, you let me down."

"I didn't realize it was so important to you," Peter said good-naturedly. "Next time I go to Miami, I'll be sure to indulge in some debauchery on your behalf.

"Thank you," Charlie said as he opened the door that lead to the parking structure. "I'd appreciate it."

Peter noticed Olivia roll her eyes.

It was colder in the structure then it had been in the airport. Peter wished he had a jacket to ward off the late September air. Still he took as deep a breath as he dared, savoring the naturally cool and dry air. It was very good, almost ridiculously good, to be home.

"There's the car," Olivia said, pointing to the sleek black SUV.

"So, what's so important that the FBI sends its two best agents to pick me up from the airport?" Peter asked as he threw his bag into the back seat and climbed in.

"We received an anonymous tip," Olivia said. "Someone planted an explosive device on the Stanton Island ferry. We managed to close the ferry itself and get all the people off the boat, but the device, whatever it was, went off."

"I take it the boat didn't do anything normal, like explode, or burst into flames."

"It turned into ice," Charlie said, "and sake to the bottom of the harbor."

"Unexpected," Peter replied. "Especially since ice floats."

"Technically," Olivia said. "Every liquid molecule in the boat turned into a solid molecule. The temperature never dropped, and a day later the boat hasn't thawed."

"Really?" Peter asked, his interest piqued. "Does Walter have any theories?"

"Probably," Olivia said. "But, mostly, he's complained about not being able to bring the entire ferry to the lab, and he's expounded at length about his worries that you will not use enough sunscreen and get cancer."

"I'm guessing your tan won't help ease that fear," Charlie said.

"So you need me to get him to focus," Peter said.

"Please and thank you," Olivia replied.

"It's good to be home," Peter said.

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Thursday 4:00 p.m.**

Walter was overjoyed to see his son, and far too consumed with his own thoughts and theories about the frozen ferry to notice Peter's tan. For three days they worked in the lab almost nonstop trying to reconstruct a process that would turn liquid into solid without using cold or pressure while Olivia and Charlie perused the human elements of the case – who planted the bomb, who called in the tip.

"So, this is your suspect?" Peter asked, looking at the printout of a Massive Dynamic employee profile. "Juan Jalisco Parnas."

"He didn't show up for work the day of the attack, and hasn't been seen since," Olivia said. "And, he's been working with advanced vibration technology."

"But it says here his research had to do with quickly separating the minerals in dirt," Astrid pointed out. "What does that have to do with a vibration that turns liquids into solids?"

"Research, even directed research, often results in serendipitous discoveries," Walter interjected from the other side of the lab, where he was wiring a device that he claimed would be able to imitate the ferry bomb. "Leo Hendrik Baekeland discovered plastic when trying to come up with a replacement for shellac. When Wilson Greatbatch accidently attached a 1-megaohm resistor to complete his circuit, he discovered the key to the pacemaker. William Perkin created the first synthetic dyes while trying to cure malaria, and he was only 18."

"I guess Pasteur was right when he said, 'chance favors the prepared mind,'" Astrid noted.

"I don't think my mind will ever be prepared enough," Olivia said.

"So we think that Parnas stumbled across the frequency that turns liquids permanently into solids while he was doing research for Massive Dynamic. But then what? Why create a bomb? And why sink the ferry?"

"Less security on the ferry than other types of mass transit," Olivia said. "But the news splash would be just as big."

"No pun intended," Peter said.

"But no terrorist organization has claimed credit," Astrid pointed out.

"Which makes it just like every other event in the pattern," Olivia said.

"And what did Nina Sharp have to say about all this?" Peter asked.

"Well," Olivia said with a frustrated sigh. "She gave me the employee profile, but little else. Parnas was a good employee, came in on time, showed progress in his research, but didn't really mix with any of the other employees. His direct manager, a Linda Kish, thought that he probably had trouble adjusting to American culture."

"What culture was he from?" Peter asked.

"He was born in Peru," Olivia said. "Came over years ago with a Fulbright scholarship to UCLA, managed to turn his student visa into a green card and, eventually, citizenship."

As Olivia spoke, a shadow of apprehension crossed Peter's face. His engaged expression shifted to introspection, and worry filled his eyes as he looked down at the file-photo of their suspect.

"Peter, what is it?" Olivia asked.

"I know a guy," Peter said after a moment, looking back up at Olivia. His expression was once more open and engaging. He looked normal, which was to say, eager to help.

"Is this a guy I can know?" Olivia asked.

"As it turns out, it is," Peter said. "How do you like Octopus?"

"Compared to other cephalopods?"

"Compared to other entrées," Peter said with a smile.

"It's ready!" Walter exclaimed from the other side of the room. The group shifted their attention to him, and the large device he'd constructed, apparently out of an old overhead projector.

"Now, Arrow, dear," Walter said. "If you would be willing to put this poster on the easel over there."

Astrid did as she was told, unfolding the old movie poster and propping it up on an easel Walter had put about three feet away from his contraption.

"Where did you find a poster for _Cruel Intentions_?" Astrid asked.

"_Cruel Intentions_?" Peter said with a laugh. "That movie's got to be like, ten years old?"

"Eleven, actually," Astrid corrected.

Peter and Olivia looked at her quizzically, compelling her to explain, "My roommate and I loved that movie in grad school. It was mindless and the boys were cute. We must have watched it fifty times."

"It was in the little bedroom, at home," Walter said. "You remember the one painted pink."

"I never go in that room," Peter said.

"I do not either," Walter said. "But one night I was . . . well, let's say, confused, and I wandered in, expecting to find a bathroom."

"I don't like where this story is going," Peter muttered.

"No worries, son," Walter continued brightly. "I did find the bathroom eventually, but not before I realized that the room had belonged to a young woman of, apparently, similar tastes to Agent Farnsworth here. Or, perhaps I should say a young woman who had grown out of such tastes, as she did not choose to take the poster and other similar wall adornments with her when she moved.

"But, all for the better, for my purposes. As you may surmise, this poster is made of paper. Dry, but perfectly flexible, paper."

"I think we are all familiar with paper," Peter said.

"Behold!" Walter said dramatically, flipping the switch on the overhead projector and the room was suddenly filled with a painfully high-pitched screech.

"Walter, what is that?" Peter yelled as he pressed the palms of his hands against his ears, trying to block out the dreadful sound. Olivia and Astrid did the same.

"Noise!" Walter replied. Perhaps the old man's hearing was going, or perhaps he didn't mind the earsplitting shriek. "Vibration and noise are one and the same. And, that should do it."

Walter flipped the switch again, and the shrill wail stopped.

"My ears are still ringing," Astrid commented.

"No one reported hearing anything like that at the dock," Olivia pointed out.

"Mr. Parmas clearly found a way to muffle the superfluous audio vibrations," Walter said dismissively. "What is important is what happened to the poster."

"Nothing happened to the poster," Peter said as he rubbed his ears, as if that would get the echoes of the sound out.

"I beg to differ," Walter said, walking up to the poster and tapping it with a pencil. There was a distinct cracking noise and the poster shattered, as if it had been a thin sheet of ice.

"Wow," Astrid said.

"Flexibility, as it were, allows for life. It lets our lungs breath in and breath out, and our hearts beat," Walter said. "Without liquids, flexibility is impossible."

"So," Olivia said, restating the obvious. "This is one scary weapon."

"Yes, my dear," Walter nodded. "It is indeed."

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Thursday 6:00 p.m.**

"Cezar, the son, lived across the hall from me in this dive I moved into after I dropped out of MIT," Peter said as he drove Olivia through the strip mall lined through fairs of Boston's outer suburbs. "We were both doing odd jobs just to get by, to prove to ourselves that we didn't need our parents. Turns out, in the end, he did."

"Need his parents?"

"He got a girl pregnant," Peter said. "Good–or well, guilt-ridden—Catholic boy that he was, he insisted they keep the baby and get married. They both moved in with his folks and he started working at the family restaurant. He used to give me the night's leftovers if I stopped by at 11:30 and helped with the dishes. There was a time I did that a lot."

"Ok," Olivia said, waiting for the story to lead to something, anything that would connect to Juan Parmas.

"His mother adored me," Peter said as he pulled into a strip mall and quickly found a parking place in front of what appeared to be a Mexican restaurant. "Let's hope she still does."

When Peter and Olivia walked in, she quickly realized that she was not in a run-of-the-mill taquería. The smells were richer, deeper than what she associated with 'Mexican' and the art on the walls, while clearly Native American, did not feature the bright colors and jagged edges that she associated with their neighbor to the south.

"Is this a Peruvian restaurant?" Olivia asked as the waited patiently for the host, who was nowhere to be seen.

"Yeah," Peter said. "Carla's – named for Cezar's mom. Best Peruvian food on the eastern seaboard, and a touchstone for the Peruvian-American community. If Parmas was connected with other ex-pats, Piero and Carla should know him."

"But he was in New York," Olivia said. "There must be a community there."

"It's a small world, Olivia," Peter told her. "People know people."

"As you continually prove," Olivia commented.

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the hostess, who quickly seated them in at a small table in a dim corner of the restaurant next to a large fountain made to look like a waterfall. The hostess probably put them there thinking that the table was romantic – perfect for a pair of lovers. Peter liked the seating because he could see that the noise of the fountain would drown out the noise of their conversation in case anyone chose to eavesdrop.

"Here are the menus," the hostess said, handing them the heavy, faux-leather booklets. "And the specials tonight are . . ."

"Hold up a sec," Peter told her. Turning to Olivia he said, "Do you trust me?"

"Does this have anything to do with octopuses?" she asked with exaggerated suspicion.

Peter smiled, "Answer my question and I'll answer yours."

"I trust you," she said with a smile.

"We'll have a double order of the Arroz a la Merinera," Peter said. "And tell Piero or Carla that Peter Bishop is here with someone he'd like them to meet."

"Arroz a la Merinera," the hostess repeated. "I'll give Carla your message."

"So," Olivia asked, her voice sounding just a little excited. "What will I be eating?"

"It's this amazing seafood stew," Peter said. "Served over rice. Did you know the Incas had a system to get fresh seafood from the coast to their capitol in the mountains?"

"I did not know that," Olivia said.

"You clearly need to watch more History Chanel."

"The amount of time I spend at home, I don't even bother paying for cable," Olivia said.

Their small talk didn't get any further than that before a large woman of Native American heritage came up to their table. "Pedro!" she said affectionately, with a thick Spanish accent. "It has been so long!"

"Mrs. Vilca," Peter said, standing up and hugging the older woman. "It's very good to see you."

"Oh, if Cezar knew you were coming he would have been here," the woman said. "You know, he was telling Marc just the other day about the time you two went sledding down the overpass during the blizzard."

"Sledding down the overpass?" Olivia asked.

"Next to the overpass," Peter clarified. "And Cezar should know better than to tell his son stories like that. No kid should do the stupid things we did."

"You should see Marc," Carla purred. "He's just turned sixteen, can you believe it?"

"Did he now?" Peter said. He seemed genuinely surprised that the baby he knew was now practically an adult.

"I have a picture here," the proud grandmother said, pulling a dog-eared photo covered with a thin plastic sleeve out of her apron pocket. It was of a dark skinned young man in a soccer uniform. He was standing on a soccer field, holding a ball, and smiling brilliantly. "They think he'll get a scholarship," Carla continued. "He's very good at the back field – all American. And his grades are not so shabby. You know, he has not missed a day of school in his life!"

"They should give him a scholarship just for that," Peter said, then turning to Olivia, he handed her the picture. "Good lookin' kid, isn't he?"

"Yes, very," Olivia said, knowing full well that praising a grandchild was the quickest way to win any grandmother's affection and cooperation.

"Mrs. Vilca," Peter said. "Allow me to introduce Olivia Dunham."

"Yes, I saw you had a lady with you," the old woman said, smiling knowingly at Peter before turning her affectionate gaze at Olivia. "You are a lucky young lady. Peter is a good boy – and there are so few now days."

"I hate to disappoint you," Peter said. "But Agent Dunham is not my girlfriend. She's my colleague. I've been working with the FBI as a consultant for the past year or so, and we've got a problem we think you might be able to help us with."

"The FBI?" Carla said nervously. "We have green cards for all our employees. We pay our taxes. We don't get mixed up in anything."

"It's not like that," Olivia said. "We're looking for information on a Peruvian scientist who may have had ties in the ex-pat community. He's been missing for four days. Any information you could give us would be helpful."

"I told her you knew everyone," Peter said. "He lives in New York, but what's a four hour drive when you need some of Carla's Anticuchos de Pollo?"

"You are a flatterer," Carla said, clearly pleased by Peter's comment. Turning to Olivia she said, "He has a sweet tongue, and you watch yourself. He will be your paramour yet."

"It's a risk she's going to have to take," Peter said, obviously amused. "Olivia, could you show her the picture?"

"His name is Juan Jalisco Parmas," Olivia said officially. "Like Peter said, he lived in New York, but the people he worked with said he didn't socialize with them, and his apartment was practically empty. He must know someone – be part of some community."

"Not ours," Carla said. "Not mine, that is. But, yes, he's Peruvian. He may have some Sephardic in him, look at the nose."

"Sephardic?" Olivia asked.

"His ancestors might have been Jewish, come from Morocco," Carla said. "I know of a synagogue in New York that he might have gone too. They have a strong community outreach; if I wanted to be with Peruvians in New York City, that is where I'd start."

"Fantastic," Olivia said. "What's the name of the synagogue?"

"Where_ I_ would start, young lady," Carla said, as if to clarify.

"I think we should let Mrs. Vilca contact the synagogue," Peter said. "Immigrant communities don't usually like federal investigations."

"Won't they be wondering why you're asking?" Olivia asked.

"Let me worry about that," Carla said with a smile.

"Don't you even want to know why we're looking for him?"

"I trust Peter," Carla said with a warm smile. "He took good care of my Cezar when they were friends. Like I told you, a good boy. If he says you need to find this man, then I can know it is for a good reason."

"Thank you," Olivia said with earnest gratitude.

"Now, you two enjoy your dinner," Carla ordered. "You had the double order of Arroz a la Merinera."

"What else?" Peter said.

"You're a lucky girl, Agent Duhnam," Carla said, this time giving her knowing smile to Olivia. "You two enjoy. I'll come back with the Mazamorra Morada and tell you what I've learned."

The old woman walked off and Olivia turned to Peter, "Mazamorra Morada?"

"Corn and fruit pudding," Peter said. "It's amazing. You'll love it."

"Well, I have to say," Olivia said, leaning back in her chair and looking at the waterfall cascading down the wall behind Peter, "Of all your wierd contacts, Carla is by far my favorite."

Peter smiled, "And you haven't even tasted the Arroz."

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Friday 10:20 a.m.**

Carla's contacts with the synagogue in New York bore fruit. The rabbi knew Juan Parmas, though he was not a member of synagogue itself. Rather, he was very involved in the Peruvian cultural events which the synagogue often participated in and sponsored. He'd taught a class on Peruvian constellations for the summer solstice, and participated in a cooking class for singles. The Rabbi was able to give Carla Parmas's address as well as the name of a young woman who was a member of the synagogue, with whom the rabbi had reason to believe Parmas was friendly.

Olivia and Charlie went straight to New York and found the woman, Hannah Loba, at her apartment in Queens. She opened the door when they knocked and smiled when they introduced themselves, but something in her large brown eyes look worried. She kept glancing down the hall as if she expected, and possibly dreaded, someone. Sure enough, after a few minutes of fruitless questioning, Juan Jalisco Parmas walked up the stairs holding a grocery bag in one hand and a gallon of milk in the other.

He saw Olivia and Charlie, two people wearing FBI windbreakers, talking to his girlfriend, and he panicked. He dropped the groceries and ran down the stairs.

Olivia and Charlie pursued him to street level. Then, when he reached the street, he did not bother to look for traffic and he ran directly in front of an oncoming car. He was hit and pronounced dead by the Paramedics when they reached the scene.

Charlie and some agents from the New York field office searched Hannah Loba's the apartment while Olivia arranged for the transportation of Juan Parmas's body.

"Peter," she clipped as soon as he answered the phone. "Where are you?"

"We just got home," Peter said. "Why?"

"I need you in the lab," Olivia explained.

"What happened?" Peter asked an undertone of dread in his voice.

"We found Juan Parmas," she replied simply.

"And?"

"And he was hit by a car before we could question him."

"That's inconvenient."

"He's dead."

"Extremely inconvenient."

"I was thinking; he's our only lead. If we could get anything out of him, anything at all, we might be able to continue our investigation."

"But didn't you just tell me he's dead?"

"As I recall, your father doesn't think that's an insurmountable obstacle."

There was a pause as the meaning of Olivia's statement sunk in. "No," Peter said firmly. "No."

"Peter, please."

"It hurts, Olivia," Peter said angrily. "And no matter what my father tells you or Astrid about the drugs he gives me, it still hurts."

"People could die, Peter," Olivia insisted. "We haven't found his workshop, so we don't know how many devices he has, or where he's planted them."

"If he's planted them."

"The point is we have questions," Olivia said.

"There's got to be another way," Peter said.

"There may be," Olivia admitted. "But Parmas has been dead for an hour already. Our window of opportunity is shrinking."

Another long pause.

"I hate this," Peter finally said. "I hate being the guinea pig. I hate being a tool."

"I know, Peter," Olivia said. "I'm sorry."

Peter sighed. "When do you think you'll get to the lab?"

"About two hours."

"We'll be there and be prepped."

"Thank you," Olivia said, genuinely grateful.

"Yeah," Peter muttered, genuinely annoyed.

To be continued . . .


	3. What has to be Done

**Friday 2:30**

"Oh, this is exciting," Walter twittered as he fussed over the large metal band lined with sharp, skull penetrating needles which Peter would soon be wearing. "I have wanted to try this experiment again. I think this time I will use a conductive jelly to enhance the audio neural reception. I hypothesized that that will resolve the confusing results that you experienced last time."

"Conductive jelly?" Peter said disbelievingly as he continued to dump bags of ice into the stainless steel tub where the remains of Juan Parmas were going to be laid. "That sounds just great."

"Also," Astrid said as she prepped the drugs they were going to give Peter. "This time the victim wasn't shot in the head."

"That, too, will be of assistance," Walter chortled. "It's better than Christmas."

"We've had some pretty awful Christmases in our family," Peter commented dryly. "But I'd do any of them over again if it meant I could get out of this."

"Oh surely not," Water continued good naturedly. His own exhilaration seemed to make him oblivious to his son's sense of dread. "What about the time we went to your grandmother's house in Florida and your aunt Sara dressed you in that horrible sweater and made you go caroling with her demon children in the rain?"

"I don't know how you can remember that," Peter said. "Seeing as you worked the entire time we were down there – probably performing experiments on Olivia and her classmates, now that I think about it – which is actually disturbing. I'm going to try and think about something else."

"Yes, Peter," Walter said encouragingly as he walked over to his son. "And I have just the task to distract you. I'm going to need you to cover your head with this." Walter handed Peter what looked like an almost empty tube of toothpaste. "Work it into your scalp as much as possible. Coat your hair as well– like it is shampoo. Lather, rinse, repeat. Only don't rinse. You know, if would probably be better if you shaved your head. Agent Farnsworth, dear, do you happen to know if the school's barber shop is open?"

"School's barber shop?" Astrid asked skeptically as she watched Peter squirt the amber jelly out of the tube.

"Yes, it's in the student union," Walter told her. "I used to get my hair done there all the time. Five dollars for a trim."

"First, that was in nineteen eighty," Peter told his father as he worked the jelly into his hair, which clumped together creating dozens of little spikes. "Second, Olivia's going to be her any minute, so even if it is still open, we don't really have the time. Third, and most importantly, I'm not going to shave my hair off."

"You look like a fourteen-year-old on a Jersey boardwalk," Astrid snickered.

"Thank you for that," Peter snapped at her.

"You need more jelly," Walter concluded. "I think I have some in the back closet, let me just go see."

Walter wandered off, looking for more of the amber colored goo that looked like apple jelly but smelled like rubbing alcohol. Peter watched his father disappear into the back room and his eyes lingered on the door even after Walter was no longer visible.

"You sure you're OK with this?" Astrid asked tentatively.

Peter looked at her and blinked. She could tell his mind was a million miles away. "I'm not OK with this," he told her. "But I'm not OK with terrorists killing innocent people either. If this is what has to be done, it's what has to be done."

"All right," Astrid said nodding – though she could feel malaise radiating out from Peter and she felt that more needed to be said. "I'm sorry about the Jersey boy joke."

Peter looked down at her and smiled, "I'm sorry I didn't find it funny."

A minute later, Walter returned with more jelly and Peter put another glob into his hair.

"Now, I think, we are just about ready," Walter concluded.

"I really, cannot emphasize how much I don't want to do this," Peter said softly, so that only Astrid heard, as he stared at Walter making final adjustments the chair he was about to be strapped into.

"It's not too late back out," Astrid said.

"I can't let you all down," Peter told her dismissively.

"Yes, Peter, you can," Astrid said, more insistently. "I've known you for a while now and I know you've got good instincts. If your gut is telling you to back off, there's probably a reason."

"But if there was another attack, and someone died," Peter said, "I can't live with knowing we didn't do everything we could."

"If you're sure," Astrid said.

"I'm sure," Peter told her before taking a deep breath and walking, with purposeful steps, towards the chair.

"Here you are, son," Walter said warmly, still oblivious to the dark look in Peter's eyes. "Sit down and we'll start the injections."

Peter did as he was told. Astrid watched him carefully a knot slowly growing in her stomach. His eyes were fixed and steely. He submitted to everything his father asked, but he barely spoke a word. She couldn't shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen. But Peter had made his decision, and she thought it was a noble decision. She wasn't going to let her own unfounded concerns keep him from doing what he felt he needed to do, nor was she going to let her trepidation become a self-fulfilling prophecy. As much as it was up to her, this would be a successful attempt to talk to a corpse.

"And you should be starting to feel the effects of the LSD now," Walter said nonchalantly as he turned from Peter to get yet another syringe with yet another drug for his son. "Next the anti-hallucinogen to help you focus."

"Walter," Peter said, his voice oddly weak. "Dad?"

The knot in Astrid's stomach tightened, but she reminded herself that Peter had spoken like that the last time as well. She glanced down at the computer read out of Peter's vitals. Everything was slowing, as expected. There was nothing to worry about.

"I'm right here, son," Walter said in a way that was probably meant to be reassuring, but sounded dismissive.

"I don't want to," Peter said, his voice shaking.

Walter looked at his son and, for the first time that night, seemed to notice the genuine distress painted so clearly across Peter's face. "It won't last long, Peter," Walter said with a note of compassion in his voice.

"It won't last . . ." Peter replied slowly as his eyes glassed over. Astrid let out a sigh of relief, believing that the drugs had overwhelmed Peter's over active mind and he, at least, was no long scared of the procedure.

Then, suddenly, Peter's heart rate spiked. In the fraction of a second it took Astrid to look up from the computer screen, Peter had jumped off the chair and thrown Walter to the ground.

"Peter! Stop!" Astrid yelled as she ran around the table and down the steps that separated her from the two men, but Peter didn't listen. Instead, he advanced on his father with obvious malice.

"Peter, no! Peter!" Walter said, clearly frightened by his son's inexplicable violence. "Please, son, listen to my voice!"

Peter didn't show any indication of hearing his father's voice as he knelt over the old man and wrapped his hands around his father's throat. Walter's words turned into gasps.

"Peter, Peter, stop!" Astrid insisted, grabbing Peter's left arm. Using all of her strength, she broke his choke hold. Peter turned to her and backhanded her with his right hand. She stumbled across the room, falling hard against a lab table. The world swam around her and she tried desperately to collect her wits. Her gun was in her bag, under the desk, on the other side of the room. If she could get there she could stop this, she could save Walter. But she could barely manage to get to her knees.

At that moment, Astrid heard the door open and Olivia's voice telling someone, "If you just bring it in here, there should be a place set up . . ."

"Olivia!" Astrid screamed. "Walter! Peter's . . . Stop Peter!"

A second later Astrid saw Olivia run up to Peter, gun drawn, and kick him in the side.

The kick, while forceful, produced a much more dramatic effect then Astrid anticipated. Peter screamed and collapsed, cradling his rib cage even as Walter gasped for breath.

With her gun in her right hand, Olivia pulled her hand cuffs out of her pocket and managed to get one around Peter's left hand, but he regained his senses quickly and yanked his cuffed hand away from Olivia before she could control his right.

"Peter, back off!" Olivia ordered, leveling her gun.

He didn't, instead he turned back to Walter, who whimpered in fear at the approach of his beloved son, but did not move to defend himself.

"I'll shoot!" Olivia threatened.

While Olivia and Peter struggled, Astrid's senses had cleared and she'd managed to pull herself up against the table. With a rush of relief, she saw the line of syringes in front of her. She grabbed the one she thought she wanted, and half ran, half tumbled towards Peter.

She did not spare a moment to contemplate what would happen if she'd grabbed the wrong one. In any event, it would be a distraction – a distraction Olivia could use. In any event, the wrong drug would be better for Peter than a gunshot wound.

With wild force, Astrid stabbed Peter in the neck with the syringe. He screamed again and lashed out at her, knocking her back onto the floor – but not until she'd depressed the plunger.

The distraction was all Olivia needed. She managed to catch Peter's right hand and twist the wrist behind his back. He continued to scream as she forced his wrist into the cuff.

"Walter Move!" Olivia yelled as she tried to pull Peter away from his victim.

The old man, however, did not follow her instructions. He lay on the floor gasping for breath and sobbing in turns.

The orderly who'd been carting in Parmas's corpse had hesitated at the door until Peter was pacified. Now that the fight was essentially over, he jumped down and helped Olivia haul the son away from the father.

"Peter," Olivia demanded, "what the hell do you think you were doing?"

"We're going to save the world," Peter muttered slowly. His knees gave way and only the strong arms of the orderly kept him from falling face down on the floor, even so, he dropped to his knees.

"Oh my God," Olivia said, "What's happening to him?"

"The sedative," Astrid panted as she got up off the floor. A nasty bruise was forming on her cheekbone and her lower lip was oozing blood. "It's taking effect."

"What the hell is going on here?" the orderly asked as he eased the now-unconscious Peter to the floor.

"He didn't want to do this," Walter unexpectedly blubbered from the floor. "I could see it in his eyes. He was afraid. And I didn't care, and so he wants to kill me."

"I don't think that's it," Olivia said.

"But what else could it be?" Walter asked. "It was the same procedure as before. We followed the same protocols. The only difference is Peter's mindset."

"And the jelly you made him put in his hair," Astrid pointed out.

"Don't be ridicules," Walter said. "It was totally innocuous! It is obvious that Peter hates me."

"Whatever the reason," Olivia said. "We'll have to test the jelly, and the drugs you gave him."

"You were drugging someone against his will?" the orderly asked uncomfortably.

"He was a willing participant," Olivia assured the man quickly. "He just had reservations about the methods."

"I think maybe he was right," Astrid said.

"In any event," Olivia insisted, momentarily ignoring the concern she felt in favor of the urgency of solving the case. "Peter cannot be our conduit. We'll need someone else."

"Impossible," Walter muttered. "The machine is tuned to Peter's electromagnetic signature. It would take days of experimentation and readjustment to configure another person and, by that time . . ."

"Parmas would be too far gone," Olivia finished with a note of defeat.

"So," the orderly asked after a pause, "What do you want me to do with the body."

"Take it back to the morgue," Olivia sighed. "This part of the investigation is over."

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Friday 4:45 p.m. **

The first thing Peter noticed was the beeps. They were the familiar, steady electronic beeps of a hospital heart monitor. The next thing he noticed was the cold. Wherever he was, it was freezing, and there was a draft coming from the left. The third thing he noticed was the voice – a man's voice holding half a conversation.

"Nah, the doctors said it would be any minute now. If I don't see anything in the next half hour I'll think about it . . . No, I should get home on time. . . . . Sounds great. I like Molly. What are you serving? . . . Want me to get some Merlot on the way home? . . . Tell you what, text me a list. . . . Yeah, Ok, I love you too."

"How's the wife?" Peter asked, trying to sound chummy, though to his ears he just sounded scared.

"Her old roommate from college is coming over for dinner," Charlie told him conversationally as he put away his cell phone. "She's making stuffed conchiglioni, which, I must say, she makes very well."

"Lucky you," Peter commented. "It looks like I'll be getting green jello for dinner."

Charlie smiled at the joke but turned serious when he said, "What the hell happened, Peter?"

Peter stared at him, searching his memory not for the answer to the question, but for a reason the question would be asked in the first place. He remembered prepping for a mind-meld with the corps of Juan Parmas. His upset stomach and dull headache were predictable and almost familiar symptoms of coming out of whatever drug-induced state his father had deemed necessary. But, those mild symptoms could in no way account for his current admittance to a hospital. What had actually happened in the experiment – what put him in the hospital, what Charlie would want to know about – was a total blank.

"I have no idea," Peter admitted.

"Really?" Charlie asked skeptically. "You have no idea why you attacked your father."

"I attacked my father?" Peter asked, his bewilderment turning to concern. "Is Walter OK?"

"He thinks you hate him," Charlie said matter-of-factly. "Astrid says he can't stop crying. She doesn't want to leave him alone. You attacked her too, by the way. Poor girl looks like she has a mean boyfriend."

Peter stared at Charlie, horrified. He searched his still-clouded brain, desperate to pull up memories that just weren't there.

"So, you really have no memory of what happened," Charlie asked.

"No," Peter said.

"And, you don't want to kill your father?"

"No," he said again.

"Ok," Charlie said with a nod as he got up out of the chair next to Peter's bed and started walking towards the door. "I'll let Broyles know."

"Charlie!" Peter said, exasperated. "Come on, you have to give me more than that."

"You're under arrest for assault," Charlie said. "I don't know what more I can give you. Except your rights, I suppose. You have the right to remain silent . . ."

"You don't have to bother with that," Peter said dismissively, but Charlie continued.

"You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights?"

"Yeah," Peter clipped. "What I don't understand is what happened. Charlie, please. Did you at least get the answers to your questions?'

Charlie sighed, "No. We didn't get that far."

"I'm sorry," Peter said. An attack on Walter, an attack on Astrid, and now a potential attack on who-knew how many innocent civilians all seemed to be his fault.

"According to Astrid, when the drugs started taking effect, you just snapped."

"Like a bad trip?"

"Her words were 'single minded assassin,'" Charlie informed him.

"Did you test the drugs and that goo he had me put in my hair?" Peter asked. "They might have been spiked with something?"

"It's all at the lab," Charlie assured him. "Not your dad's lab, but the official FBI lab. If anything you took was laced, we'll know. Now, you didn't happen to take any other drugs we don't know about."

"No," Peter said.

"Astrid told me you were pretty nervous going into the procedure," Charlie commented. "Nothing to help you relax?"

"I was nervous because I was about to be given a complex cocktail of illicit substances," Peter said. "There's no way I'd put anything else in my system leading up to that."

"So, the drugs, that's why you were nervous?" Charlie asked.

Peter exhaled and tried to remember. He'd been completely terrified; there was no denying it. But why, exactly, eluded him. He didn't like the drugs, and the whole thing was extremely painful. But the fear he'd felt, the intense aversion to the entire procedure, he couldn't quite explain. "It just felt wrong," he finally said.

"Did you know the drugs would make you attack your father?" Charlie asked.

"We don't know that they did," Peter replied.

"I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt," Charlie told him.

"No," Peter replied. "I didn't . . . I don't know what I thought would happen – well, actually, I do. I thought that I'd hear the echoes of a dead man's thoughts and that would lead you to a terrorist cell. I didn't think I'd attack anyone."

Charlie's cell phone chirped and he glanced down at it.

"Is it from Olivia?" Peter asked.

"No, from my wife," Charlie said. "The grocery list."

"Where is she?"

"Sonia's at school," Charlie answered as he read the list. "She teaches fourth grade at a St. Martin's downtown. Do you know what arugula is?"

"It's a green leafy vegetable," Peter answered. "Like lettuce. I meant, where is Olivia?"

"She's with your father and Astrid at the lab. They're trying to find a way to trace the traces of vibrations that would cause the solidifying. If they can do that, Walter thinks they could find Parmas's workshop."

"Is it working?" Peter asked anxiously.

"Not yet," Charlie said. "But hope springs eternal."

It took a moment for Peter to digest this information. As he thought, Charlie continued to look at his phone.

"So," Peter eventually asked. "What's the procedure from here?"

"Wha'da'ya mean?" Charlie asked.

"I'm currently handcuffed to a hospital bed," Peter said. "But they're going to want to discharge me pretty soon."

"Well, maybe," Charlie said, putting away his phone. "You're blood work has to come through – that might give us a clue to what happened. And I know the doctor wanted to look at your ribs when you were awake."

"My ribs?" Peter asked.

"Well, yeah," Charlie said, speaking calmly as if the topic of discussion was common knowledge, not a secret Peter had endeavored to hide for the past week. "At first Olivia felt awful."

"Why would she feel awful?" Peter asked.

"Because she kicked . . . oh, right, you don't remember any of that. Yeah, to get you off of your father she kicked you in the ribs, and she thought she might have broken them. But in the ER they said that the wound was about a week old. Also, turns out you have some nasty patches of raw skin on your forearms, that don't look like your regular beach volleyball injuries. Which begs the question, what did you do on your little vacation to Florida?"

"I told you," Peter said.

"No, actually, you never did," Charlie asserted. "I'd have thought breaking your ribs would have been a particularly memorable part of the trip – I imagine there's an interesting story behind it. You can choose to tell whatever stories you like, of course, but . . ."

"But whatever I say could be used against me in a court of law." Peter finished.

"I was going to say, but I understand if you didn't want to give a bad impression."

"Of drunken debauchery?" Peter asked.

"Any kind of debauchery," Charlie replied.

Peter sighed, "Now, listen, I can't see how this relates to anything that happened in the lab. But, just so you don't think I'm hiding things, I'll tell you."

"I'm all ears," Charlie said.

"We did go to clubs," Peter said. "And not . . . well . . . not reputable clubs. I lied in the airport because Olivia . . . well, you know how girls are. I just didn't . . . I didn't want to go down that road."

"Keep talking," Charlie said.

"Anyways, there was this girl, Desi, well, actually, she said her name was Desdemona, but, you know, it probably wasn't."

"Ok," Charlie said. "I think I get the picture."

"She strapped me to a bed and then, well, she wasn't exactly gentle."

"You saying she broke your ribs with, what, her thighs? Like that chick in the James Bond movie?"

"I could draw you a diagram if you like," Peter said. "But it was complicated."

"And you kept going?" Charlie asked.

"I wasn't in a position to stop," Peter replied with a dry laugh. "The next morning I went to a walk in clinic and they basically said I should breathe deeply and take some Advil."

"How about the burns?" Charlie asked.

"I told you, I was strapped down."

"I meant the burns behind your ears."

"Oh," he said, almost blushing. "She was a smoker. It was all part of the . . . experience."

"Sounds like some experience," Charlie commented dryly.

"See, this is why I didn't want to tell you."

"No, no," Charlie said, holding his hands up as if in surrender. "Far be it from me to judge a bachelor's entertainment. There's a part of me that wishes I'd been there."

"All of me wishes I could go home to a home-cooked dinner," Peter said.

"Eventually," Charlie said reassuringly, once more glancing at his phone. "But, I really got to go. She said 'a few things' and there's like, eighty items on this list."

"Right," Peter said.

"You want me to send a nurse in on my way out?" Charlie offered.

"What for?" Peter asked.

"I don't know, " Charlie replied. "Show you how the TV works. Get you a glass of water."

"I'll be fine," Peter said. "I've got a lot to think about."

"Ok," Charlie replied nonchalantly. "I'm sure I'll see you tomorrow, here, or someplace else."

"Yeah," Peter replied, following Charlie's lead and pretending that they were friends parting at the end of the day, not prisoner and an interrogating agent. "Enjoy your dinner."

"Thanks," Charlie said with a smile. "Enjoy your jello."

**To be continued . . .**


	4. Assuming He's Innocent

**Friday 5:00 p.m. **

Three doors down, in a family waiting room converted to an observation center, Broyles and Olivia waited for Charlie.

"So?" Charlie asked as he walked into the room, where his superior officer and partner were still looking at the computer screen streaming images of Peter in his hospital bed. At the moment, he was doing nothing of note – just staring out the window with a furrowed brow.

"He's lying," Olivia said. "A sadomasochist hooker? Come on."

"It wouldn't have been my first guess," Charlie said. "But it is a good reason for him not to be forthcoming on the matter."

"Which is why he told that lie," Olivia insisted. "Something bigger is going on."

"What about his insistence that he did not remember the attack on Doctor Bishop?" Broyles asked.

"Seemed genuine to me," Charlie said. "If anything, I'd say the situation spooked him."

"Which is why what happened in Florida is so important," Olivia said. "He was probably hypnotized or . . ."

"Hypnotized?" Broyles asked skeptically.

"Sir, considering we were expecting him to communicate with a dead man, I don't think hypnosis is that unreasonable," Olivia said.

"I don't know that you are approaching this from an objective perspective," Broyles said.

"I'm not," Olivia admitted. "I'm assuming he's innocent."

"You're not the jury, Dunham," Broyles said. "That's not your job. Your job is to find out what happened, no matter who's guilty."

"Yes sir," Olivia replied, though her tone was in no way cowed.

"The fact of the matter is we cannot keep him here, or in any type of custody, for long," Broyles said. "So if we don't find out what provoked the attack, we have little chance of preventing another one."

"He hasn't lawyered up," Charlie pointed out.

"I don't want to give him the opportunity," Broyles said. "He didn't sign the release form with his contract, which means we cannot suspend _habeas corpus_. And, we cannot charge him with assault when a major factor in that assault appears to be drugs we gave him, even though he expressed concern about their effects."

"So, we cut him loose?" Charlie asked. "Forget that this happened."

"That's not an option either," Broyles grumbled. "I don't like the idea of sending Bishop home only to discover his father suffocated in the bed the next morning."

"There must have been something," Olivia insisted. "A trigger. Something to do with the drugs, or the needles, or the smell of that stuff in his hair."

"Are you suggesting that the hookers really a hypnotist, and that she wanted to attack Dr. Bishop, and that she knew what types of procedures the doctor was likely to perform on his son in the near future?"

"I'm saying that Peter would not attack his father of his own volition," Olivia insisted. "I'm also saying it takes a lot of pressure to break a rib; and maybe I'm just displaying my ignorance of an S& M dungeon, but I cannot figure how it happened."

"My guess is he's not gonna tell the story," Charlie commented.

"My guess is that's because he doesn't have one," Olivia said.

"Think this through, Dunham," Broyles said. "You are hypnotizing that Bishop went to Florida on vacation, and was subsequently hypnotized, or something, by some person unknown. During this hypnotisms, he receives some very unusual injuries, which he can't explain. Then, when he comes back, and he learns what the hypnotist made him do, he lies about it? Why? Who is he protecting?"

"It could be part of the hypnosis," Olivia said.

"As I understand it, Bishop was in a trancelike state when he attacked his father, and could have been under someone else's influence," Broyles said, adding with emphasis, "But, you saw his interrogation. He's not in a trance now."

"Maybe the S & M thing were suggested memories," Olivia said. "It's not that hard to trick anyone into believing they saw something they didn't – a few leading questions, a photoshopped image . . ."

"It just seems so complicated," Charlie protested.

"Since when has anything we've touched been simple?" Olivia replied. Turning to Broyles, she said, "Sir, I'd like permission to talk to Walter about the possibility of hypnotisms or brainwashing. He might know something we don't."

"I would prefer if he focused on finding Parmas's lab," Broyles said.

"I agree that that should be a higher priority," Olivia said. "But do you honestly think he'll be able to focus on that problem when Peter's status is so uncertain? Charlie improvised a better way to find Parmas's lab than Walter's been able to come up with."

"Liv's got a point," Charlie said. "Right now we've got a prisoner who can't be charged and can't be released, and an asset who's only draining agents' time. If we can't go back to the status-quo, then we'd better figure out where we can go."

Broyles considered Charlie's analysis. "If the drug test come back clean and the psych eval is normal, I'll consider opening an investigation. Until then, I expect both of you to put all of your efforts into finding Parmas's lab."

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Saturday Afternoon**

"Good cop, bad cop?" Charlie asked as he looked at Hannah Loba through the one-way mirror. The woman looked to be about forty, and was very pretty, with a round face, large brown eyes, thick, curly black hair, and skin the color of a latte. She had been questioned at the scene, of course, and it had been determined that she didn't know anything about Parmas's work or his lab. But after two days of hoping for a break and not getting one, Olivia had her brought in for questioning. As far as Olivia could tell, Ms. Loba was the only person on the continent that had actually known Parmas. Who knew what kind of relevant information she might have.

"You think?" Olivia asked. "Nothing indicates she had any idea what he was doing."

"You think he kept her in the dark?" Charlie asked. "Then why was she screening him?"

"I don't know," Olivia said. "She might not know herself."

"I don't see that," Charlie said. "Unless this is one of those women-in-love things."

"It could be," Olivia said, closing the folder. "Let me give a shot at good cop. If I'm not getting anywhere, you can come in and be bad."

"Oh, my favorite," Charlie said with a sardonic smile.

Olivia smiled back as she exited the observation room. She was still smiling when she entered the interrogation room, though her smile had a different tenor. "Hi Hannah," Olivia said warmly as she sat across from the suspect. "Do you mind if I call you Hannah?"

"No, I guess not," the woman said.

"I suppose you know why you're here."

"Because of Juan," Hannah said with a sigh. "Perhaps I should have turned him in to the police."

"You certainly should have," Olivia told her.

"But I was raised to help people who are in trouble," Hannah insisted. "It's how my grandmother survived the holocausts. People helped her without asking questions, without thinking about what would be in their own best interest. If the people who had protected her had called the Gestapo instead of giving her help, I would never have been born."

"Look, Hannah," Olivia said sweetly. "I don't think you did anything wrong. But Juan, he wasn't innocent. You must have known that . . ."

"He came to me about a week ago," Hannah said, starting to tear up. "We had been seeing each other for a while."

"You met at the Synagogue," Olivia prompted.

"A Peruvian cooking class for singles," Hannah said. "I think he was generally interested in making the food, but I was looking for company. For a husband."

"Tall order for a cooking class," Olivia noted.

"Juan and I were paired up to make this honey-corn-bread-cake dish. I don't even remember its name. Somehow we got on the topic of social justice and, well, the cake was a disaster, but, for my part, the night was a success."

"And so you started going out," Olivia prompted.

"Not the way you mean," Hannah said. "We talked, we talked a lot. But, he never took me out to a nice restaurant or walked along the river holding my hand. We were building something real; I could feel that. He was a troubled individual with a lot on his mind. The ethics of his situation, a wealthy, well educated man from a poor exploited country weighted hard on him. How could God allow it? What could we, as humans, do to rectify it? Where was the line between demanding justice and extracting revenge . . ."

"Who did he want to extract revenge from?" Olivia asked.

"Oh, I don't know that he did," Hannah said quickly. "He never said anything specific. When we talked, it was all theoretical."

"I see."

"But, and this was important to me, so forgive me if it's not important to you, but when he came to me last week, when he seemed to be in such trouble . . . he'd changed."

"Changed how?" Olivia asked.

"His loyalties had always, always been with the poor – as I feel they should be. Still, he was more extreme than I could approve of. When I made arguments along the lines of 'Rich people are people too' he'd scoff and say they were criminals, or something, for stealing all of the world's resources.

"But last Sunday night, or really, Monday morning around 2 a.m., he called me. He was sobbing, and he asked if he could come over. Of course I said yes. He told me that he'd had an epiphany. He said that he'd been restless, so he took a walk and ended up by the doc for the Long Island Ferry. He said the night was so quiet, with no cars going by or pedestrians talking, that he could overhear the Ferry workers' conversation. One of the men was telling the other that he'd just found out his wife was pregnant. And Juan said that news made him happy. He said, for some reason, some indescribable reason, he got happy that some guy he'd never met was going to be a father – and that happiness, it changed everything. He told me he realized that human life was more valuable than anything. He told me that no amount of injustice should ever compel anyone to take a life . . . and, and here is where I maybe should have called the police. He told me he'd been this close," she held her hand up, indicating less than a centimeter between her thumb and her forefinger. "To trying to force justice – to killing someone who was oppressing his people."

"Did he say who that someone was?"

"No," Hannah said quickly. "And I did not ask. He didn't do it, he hadn't done it, and that's all that mattered."

"So, if you believed he hadn't committed a crime, why did you hide him?"

"I didn't hide him," Hannah said. "That night our relationship changed. He told me he'd been keeping me at arm's length because he didn't want to hurt me. But now that he'd given up his hate, he realized that our lives were precious, 'Sacred' was the word he used," Hannah said as she started to cry.

"Very poetic," Olivia noted her voice full of compassion.

"We were together for a week," Hannah continued. "I called in sick to work some days and we, we made up for all the time we'd lost. We were going to get married. We were so happy. But then, you came."

"Hannah," Olivia said. "I . . . I understand how you feel. The man I loved died earlier this year. I know how horrible . . ."

"Oh," Hannah said, gasping through her tears. She looked at Olivia, apparently genuinely seeking advice, "How do you cope?"

"You never forget why you loved them," Olivia said. "And you never forget that they loved you."

Hannah nodded. "Thank you Miss," Hannah said as she tried to wipe her eyes dry with the heel of her hand. "I'm sorry, I forgot your name."

"It's Olivia," Olivia said. "I can see that you need some time to calm down. Would you like me to get you a cup of coffee or something?"

"I don't suppose I could have some tea?" the woman asked. "Green tea always calms me down."

"I'll see what I can do," Olivia said as she got up from the table and headed for the door. "I'll be right back."

When she stepped out into the hallway, Charlie was standing in the doorway of the observation room. He looked concerned.

"So?" Olivia asked. She'd thought the interview had gone well, and she believed every word out of Hannah Loba's mouth, but Charlie's expression made her wonder what she'd missed.

"Parmas had a change of heart?" Charlie asked. "And that night moved in with his girlfriend?"

"It's possible," Olivia said. "According to her, he was a thoughtful man who wanted to do the right thing. It's conceivable that he planted the Ferry bombs, or helped plant the Ferry bombs, overheard one of the Ferry Workers talk about his expected baby, had a change of heart, and called in the tip."

"Possible," Charlie said.

"The call was made from a pay phone less than a mile away from the ferry's office," Olivia noted.

"I wonder how long he had to walk around to find one of those," Charlie commented.

"And the tipster had a heavy Spanish accent," Olivia continued. "We should have Hannah listen to the tape and see if she can identify the voice."

"Yeah, all right," Charlie said. "Maybe I can buy all that, but there is one little detail that still doesn't mesh."

"What's that?" Olivia asked.

"Why," Charlie asked as he handed her a print out with a long stream of numbers, which she recognized as phone records report. "Did someone in her apartment call Peter Bishop?"

For a second, she stared at Charlie, dumbfounded. Then she glanced down and saw a highlighted number at the bottom of the page. "Well, this is just the hotel," Olivia said uncertainly. "There are hundreds of rooms . . ."

"Next page, Liv," Charlie told her.

Olivia flipped the page and saw a copy of the hotel's internal phone records. A call from Hannah Loba's number had been transferred to the Bishop's room at 10:45 on Thursday night. Below that was a hand written note, "Agt. Farnsworth asked Dr. Bishop about call. Bishop said P. Bishop took call and claimed it was a wrong number."

"Well, they couldn't have made plans," Olivia noted. "Once the call got to the room it was less than a minute long."

"So they weren't making plans," Charlie said. "They were confirming them?"

"You know, he got this call a half an hour after I dropped him off at the hotel," she said. "He led me to the people who led us to Parmas, then he hides this call . . ." she looked up at Charlie. "I don't get it."

"Maybe he didn't think his lead would bear fruit," Charlie suggested.

"But why take the risk?" Olivia said.

"Maybe," Charlie said, "He wanted to get out of the lab and have dinner with a beautiful woman."

"Then he should ask a beautiful woman out on a date and let me focus on solving this case," Olivia clipped.

"Look, Liv," Charlie said seriously. "I'm starting to think we should hand this case off to another agent. It's starting to get close to home."

"You know I can't do that, Charlie," Olivia said.

"I know you don't do that," Charlie retorted. "Maybe this should be the first time."

"We already know he's lying about what happened last weekend," Olivia said, her voice level and measured. "And now we know that the truth ties into Parmas – but we have no idea what the truth is. I won't be able to rest until I am certain I know what really happened. And the only way I know to get that certainly is to conduct the investigation myself."

"Well," Charlie said with a sigh. "I've known you long enough to know better than to get in your way."

~B~R~E~A~K~

A reward had been offered for any information leading to the discovery of Jaun Parmas's lab. Olivia, Charlie, and the rest of the Homeland Security Task Force shifted through the information that came pouring in and quickly found the one they wanted. The owner of several commercial properties called in saying that Parmas had rented a rundown gas station and repair shop from him out on long island. The owner had always thought it odd that Parmas wanted it, as he was not attempting to turn the station into a successful business. Still, when the rent came in every month, he didn't think it was his place to ask too many questions.

A raid on the station came up with a host of electronics – all of which had to be analyzed and traced – but no incriminating documents. The large desktop computer in the lab had a wealth of information about the vibration device, how it worked, it's limitations, further fields of research – but it did not have a modem and had never been connected to the internet. If Parmas had been working with someone, they'd been communicating through less-traceable means.

As a matter of course, Broyles had just about everything sent to Walter's lab at Harvard. It was scheduled to arrive Monday morning. And Astrid found herself with the unenviable task of getting Walter Bishop ready to receive it.

"I don't want to go," Walter whimpered.

"That's what you said Friday night when I brought you here," Astrid said, exasperated. "Then you didn't want to leave the lab, now you don't want to go back?"

"This whole thing is very upsetting," Walter said. He was sitting at the small table in his hotel room, wearing nothing but a bathrobe: a level of dress that had only been produced by the promise of coffee and cinnamon rolls. But instead of eating the cinnamon roll and getting ready to go to the lab, he stared at it dejectedly.

"I understand that," Astrid said coaxingly. "And we gave you the weekend off so you could talk to Peter and work things out. You didn't even try, did you?"

"There is a TV channel that only shows old movies, did you know that?" Walter asked. "I discovered that _Arsenic and Old Lace_ is just as funny on the fourth viewing as it was on the first."

"Walter, we have to keep working," Astrid insisted. "There's a good chance that whomever Parmas working with will strike again. People could die."

"They would all die eventually," Walter said. "Why delay the inevitable?"

"Walter," Astrid chided.

"It's true, Asbestos," he said. "We will all die and I find this mad-capped scrape to save a few lives tedious."

"I know you're concerned about Peter," Astrid said calmly. "But you can't . . ."

"He said he wanted to save the world," Walter interrupted. "From me, don't you see? He wants to save the world from me, and my experiments, and my efforts to uncover mysteries of life that are better left mysterious."

"Peter was drugged out of his mind," Astrid said. "He doesn't know what he said."

"You can't know that," Walter whimpered.

"As it happens, I do know that," Astrid replied. "Agent Francis interviewed Peter as soon as he woke up. Peter said he didn't remember any of it."

"He didn't?" Walter asked, turning to look at Astrid for the first time that morning. "Not—not a moment of it?"

"No," Astrid said with a note of hesitation in her voice. "Like I said, he was drugged."

"But those drugs wouldn't affect his memory," Walter insisted, his mood and voice rising with every word. "If he cannot remember the attack, then that seems to imply that he did not attack me. Where are my shoes, I must go to the lab at once!"

"Walter," Olivia insisted as the old man started wondering around the room, pulling clothes out of drawers. "That's crazy. Of course Peter attacked you. "

"Not at all, Asteroid," Walter said gleefully as he shed his bathrobe.

"Walter! Please!" Astrid said, quickly looking away.

The scientist didn't even register her protest as he put on his clothes and spun his theory. "Peter does not remember the event because he was not conscious during the event. If he was unconscious, but still active, we have to assume another consciousness took over his body and compelled it to act."

"Are you done yet?" Astrid asked, unwilling to turn around until she knew he was clothed.

"Not remotely," Walter said. "Which is why I have to go to the lab. Belly and I worked extensively on connecting consciousnesses through various ways and means, often sans body. In essence, that is what we were trying to do yesterday, retrieve Parmas's consciousness even though his body was unavailable."

"So," Astrid said. "You think Peter was possessed, or something."

"The word 'possessed' has religious implications that detract from the purely scientific nature of this event – but, yes, you could say someone possessed Peter. This is a very good cinnamon roll, where did you get it?"

"Are you wearing clothes?" Astrid asked.

"Um," Walter said, as if he had to consider the question. "Yes, I seem to be wearing the garments dictated by social morays and, of course, the weather."

Astrid turned around and found that Walter was, indeed, fully dressed and devouring the cinnamon bun she'd brought him with relish.

"I got it at the coffee shop down the block," Astrid said. "Perk-it-up."

"Most fascinating," Walter said as he licked the gooey cinnamon icing off his fingers. "I shall have to instruct Peter to go there once we have performed the exorcism."

"Exorcism?" Astrid asked. "I thought you said this wasn't religious."

"Oh, it most certainly is not," Walter chuckled. "But it's so much easier to say 'exorcism' then 'removal of an unknown parasitical consciousness.' You have to give the church credit; it has produced some very useful words."

"Sure Walter," Astrid said. "But, you know, Broyles wants us to figure out how to detect one of Parmas's bombs before it goes off."

"Once we have removed the unwanted consciousness from Peter, we'll be able to do that," Walter replied dismissively. "Now, Belly's research on this topic was much more extensive then my own. Luckily, we should have all his notes at the lab."

"William Bell's notes," Astrid asked, disheartened.

"Come now!" Walter said, excitedly as he walked past her and out the door. "There is no time to loose!"

**To be continued . . .**


	5. Where the Truth Is

**Tuesday Morning**

When Olivia walked into Broyles office with an expectant and determined look on her face, he didn't have to ask what she wanted, "I have Bishop's psych eval right here," he said, handing her a manila folder. "He's officially sane, which means you can officially investigate why he went crazy."

Olivia immediately opened the file and started reading, "Subject does harbor resentful thoughts towards father, but is well along the forgiveness process. He has healthy boundaries and reasonable expectations for the future of his relationship with his father. Furthermore, he can demonstrate a clear distinction between right and wrong and shows appropriate levels of empathy and remorse."

"Like I said," Broyles said. "Officially sane."

"Where is Peter now?" Olivia asked.

"In a cell downstairs," Broyles informed her. "We've charged him with assault, though we're going to have to drop the charges before it comes before a judge."

"In other words, soon," Olivia said. "When can I interview him?"

"How long does it take you to get downstairs?"

Olivia offered her superior a tight, controlled, but grateful smile, "Thank you, sir."

"Keep in mind, Dunham, that our work is fraught with unanswered questions . . . ."

"I know that too well."

" . . . Don't leave me with one more," he ordered.

"I won't," Olivia said, nodding, before she left his office and went to Peter's holding cell in the basement of the federal building.

As she rode down the elevator, she thought carefully about how she wanted to conduct her interrogation. She was convinced he was hiding something about his recent trip to Florida, but his interview with Charlie made it clear he was intent on keeping that information to himself – even though he knew it might have bearing on what he'd done. Then there was the call from Parmas, which was wholly unexplained.

Time had passed, Olivia reasoned, and hopefully he thought better of his decision. Or, perhaps he had spun such a ludicrously false tale because he didn't feel comfortable with Charlie. Perhaps he would tell the truth to someone he knew better, someone he trusted more. In either event, the question had to be asked – and she would gain nothing by asking it officially.

Instead of having him brought to an interrogation room, which was standard procedure, she had him brought to an observation room. The lights were dim, there was no table between them, and they both knew that there were no cameras or recorders keeping track of what was said. She set up her laptop on a low side table, got herself and him a cup of coffee, and waited for the bailiff to retrieve him from his cell.

"Hi Peter," she said with a smile as he walked in.

"Olivia," he replied cagily. She felt a pang of disappointment. The optimistic part of her had hoped he'd be glad to see her and anxious to confess. As usual, the pessimist had been correct, and this was going to be a difficult interview.

"Coffee?" Olivia offered, holding out the steaming styraphome cup.

"Sure," Peter said, taking it from her. "This is the first hot coffee I've had in days."

She smiled warmly, "So, other than having to deal with cold coffee, how you been?"

"Board, mostly," Peter said. "Astrid was kind enough to bring me some back issues of _Popular Mechanics_, but otherwise there hasn't been much to do. Were you able to find anything on Parmas?"

"Yes, actually," Olivia said. "We did track down his lab. But we still can't figure out who he was working for."

"Any chance he was working alone?" Peter asked, sounding hopeful.

"Unlikely," Olivia said. "He made some calls, one call, really, that leads us to believe he had conspirators."

"Who did he call?" Peter asked, sounding interested.

"You," Olivia said simply, staring him in the eyes, careful to notice every nuance of his reaction.

"No," Peter said eventually, shaking his head. "That's not possible."

Had all things been equal, she would have believed him. His surprise, tinted with panic and disbelief, seemed genuine. But the phone records didn't lie, while Peter Bishop could lie very, very well.

"Thursday night, at 11:45," Olivia pressed. "A half an hour after I dropped you off at the hotel a call was transferred to your room. You answered, exchanged a few word, and then told Walter that it was a wrong number."

"Thursday night?" Peter said, looking almost relived. "I remember that call."

"At least you remember something," Olivia said.

"That was Parmas?"

"It was," Olivia said.

"How did he get my number?" Peter asked. "How did he even know I existed?"

"Why don't you tell me?" Olivia said.

"Olivia, I have no idea," Peter told her earnestly. "The phone rang, which is unusual, but I answered it and this guy with a heavy Mexican or Spanish accent said 'if you believe human life is sacred, leave.'"

"If you believe human life is sacred?" Olivia repeated. "Exactly that?"

"Yeah," Peter said.

"And then?" Olivia asked

"I demanded to know who was calling," Peter said. "Then he went on, told me to go to California, or Mexico, or Australia – but if I valued human life, I needed to leave."

"So he never told you who he was," Olivia said.

"No," Peter replied. "I don't like getting jerked around like that, so I told him 'never call me again.' And I hung up."

"Ok," Olivia said, nodding. "And you didn't find this conversation worth mentioning?"

"I, ah," Peter said hesitantly. "I thought it was a threat."

"All the more reason to mention it," Olivia said.

"From Big Eddie," Peter said, quickly adding, "and I know what you're going to say, that you'd like to know if a mobster is threatening me. But the fact is I'm ashamed of that part of my past. I made a lot of mistakes and I'd rather forget about them – I certainly don't want to drag you into it."

"So, you thought Big Eddie, or, really, one of his goons, was threating you – get out of town or else we'll kill you – that kind of thing."

"Pretty much," Peter said. "Maybe I should have told you . . . I mean, knowing now that it was Parmas, I defiantly should have told you, but . . ."

"You have your pride," Olivia said, stating a fact, not making a judgment. "You thought you could handle it."

"I'm sorry, Olivia," Peter said earnestly.

"But it leaves us with a lot of unanswered questions," Olivia pointed out.

"Why did he call me?" Peter said. "And what does it have to do with my attack on Walter?"

"Do you think he knew you would attack your father?" Olivia said. "Could that be the life he considered sacred?"

"How is Walter?" Peter asked eagerly, as if that question had been on the tip of his lounge, but he didn't dare broach the subject.

"He thinks you were possessed by a foreign consciousness."

"He does?" Peter said, sounding relived.

"Is that what you think happened?"

"I have no idea what happened," Peter said. "But, believe it or not, I was worried he'd hold it against me."

"So, you really don't remember it at all?" Olivia asked, letting just a touch of skepticism creep into her voice.

"I remember being prepped for the procedure," Peter told her. "Walter injected me with the LSD, I think, and then I woke up in the hospital."

Olivia considered his statement for a moment, but Peter was apparently too anxious to let her sit and think.

"I realize I'm the suspect here," Peter said. "But, c'mon, Olivia . . .can't you at least tell me what happened?"

"You tried to kill your father."

"So I've been told."

"Would you like to see the video?" Olivia offered.

"Can I?" Peter asked, sounding eager.

"Of course," Olivia said. She turned to her laptop and quickly pulled up the video. "Here you go," she said, handing the computer to Peter.

He watched the silent 45-second video of his attack intently, looking bothered when he slapped Astrid, and wincing when Olivia kicked him. When it was over, he looked more concerned than ever.

"Can I see it again?" He asked.

"Knock yourself out," she replied.

Peter watched the video three more times before he offered her the computer back. She could see the images had affected him. Despite his recently acquired suntan, he looked pale, and his eyes were unfocused as his gaze fell to nothing in particular. His thoughts were churning inside his head, but she got the impression no progress was being made.

"And?" Olivia prompted.

"And, I attacked Walter and Astrid," Peter told her simply.

"But you have no memory of it?"

"No."

"And the video, it didn't jog anything?" Olivia asked. "You didn't notice anything that might help you understand what happened?"

"No," Peter replied, turning to look at her. "I . . . I can't explain that."

"No hypothesis?" Olivia asked. "None at all? You're a smart guy, Peter. You've got to be thinking something."

"The psychedelic drug cocktail Walter gave me . . ." Peter started.

"Nope, all those drugs were cleared by forensics.," Olivia interjected. "Alone or combined, they don't account for homicidal attacks or memory loss."

"Then I have no idea."

"Peter, come on," Olivia said, dropping her sweetness in favor of a little force. "You have to give me something."

"I have nothing to give you," Peter replied. "Olivia, I'm sorry but . . ."

"You're sorry?" Olivia scoffed. "You conspire with a terrorist, attack your father and a federal officer, upended an investigation into a potentially deadly attack, then conveniently forget everything about it. And all you have to say is you're sorry."

"Hey, forgetting everything about it is not convenient," Peter told her hotly.

"Look, Peter," Olivia said, matching his tone. "I know you've thought about leaving. I also know that your father tends to drive you a little nuts."

"More than a little," Peter said.

"But conspiring with criminals and attacking him . . ."

"I didn't contact Parmas, he contacted me!" Peter insisted. "And I don't know why. I don't know why I attacked Walter, either. I certainly didn't want to!"

"Can't even hazard a guess?"

"I could hazard lots of guesses," Peter said, venting some of his frustration. "I may have been possessed by an evil spirit, or perhaps replaced by a pod person. I could have been brainwashed by a cult. I could have multiple personalities, or I could have meant to do it and be lying to about the whole thing."

"Are any of those true?" Olivia asked calmly.

"How can I know?" Peter said.

"I'm wondering how can you not," Olivia replied.

"Look, I want answers too," Peter said. "I don't want to go to jail for crimes I didn't mean to commit."

"Well, if that's what you're worried about . . ."

"That's not what I'm worried about," Peter insisted.

" . . .you won't go to jail," Olivia continued. "Apparently, if a federal agency asks someone to take illegal narcotics against his better judgment and that person subsequently commits a crime, it's considered entrapment and not prosecutable by law. I suppose we could ask Walter to file a criminal complaint with the Cambridge police, but somehow I don't think he would."

"Get Astrid to do it," Peter said. "I hit her."

"I thought you didn't want to go to jail," Olivia said.

"If I don't know what triggered the attack, I can't guarantee it won't happen again."

"Astrid's not an option," Olivia said. "Federal agent giving you drugs, remember?"

"So, what are you telling me," Peter asked. "I'm free to go?"

"Eventually," Olivia replied. "The fact is, we can't hold you."

"But what about Walter?" Peter asked, sounding genuinely anxious.

"He'll continue working with us," Olivia said. "Your contract will have to be terminated. I'm sure you understand."

"I don't care about the job," Peter said. "I know where the lab is, the hotel room . . . what if I go after him?"

"Don't go after him," Olivia said simply.

"Aren't you listening?" Peter demanded. "I didn't want to attack my father, and I don't know why I did. Crazy as this is, he is the most important person in my life, and I'd rather be in jail than risk hurting him again."

"Then tell me the truth!" Olivia said with equal passion. "Why did Parmas call you?"

"I have no idea," Peter insisted.

"Why did you attack Walter?"

"You know I don't know."

"What happened in Florida?" Olivia pressed.

"I don't . . ." Peter started, but then caught himself.

"You don't know what happened in Florida?" Olivia asked, feeling sure of the answer, even though Peter would not admit it.

"I don't see what that has to do with the investigation," Peter replied with forced calm.

"Let me be the judge of that," Olivia said. "Tell me about Florida."

"I told my story to Charlie," Peter clipped. "If you don't believe it, I can't help that."

"So, you're sticking with the lies you told Charlie?" Olivia asked.

"Are you sure they're lies, or do you just want them to be?"

"How about you tell me the names of those friends you went down there with," Olivia said. "If they back up your story, I'll start considering the possibility that it's true."

Peter hesitated. "I can't do that," he eventually said. "One of them is married and the other's got a serious girlfriend. She's pregnant. If you go to Florida, I'm sure you could find . . ."

"Oh, I'm sure I could find a hooker that swears you were with her," Olivia said. "That kind of service has got to be relatively cheap."

Peter looked away from her and took a deep breath. She could tell he was making a decision, and she didn't rush him.

Eventually, he looked up at her and said. "You're right, I lied to Charlie. And you're right, what happened down there might have something to do with this – all of this. But believe me when I say I cannot tell you the truth – at least, not yet. I wish I could, Olivia, but I can't."

"Then I can't help you," Olivia said simply.

He looked at her, his eyes catching hers. His cool blue eyes were begging for help, or at very least understanding, but she stared him down icily. She would help him. She believed, more than he seemed to, that he was just as much of a victim as Walter, but she would not be lied to. If he wanted her support, he needed to be honest.

"Ok," he said, though he didn't sound ok at all. "Good to know where I stand."

"Tell me the truth, Peter."

"The truth is that I made a promise to someone . . ."

"Someone more important than your father?" Olivia demanded.

"No," Peter said. "But I gave my word."

"The word of a con man."

Peter sighed in frustration. "If you can't keep me here, let me go," he said. "If and when I find out what happened, and I know it won't happen again, I'll come back."

"Tell me who you're protecting," Olivia insisted.

"Someone who doesn't deserve it," Peter admitted.

"Then break your promise," Olivia said.

Peter meet her eyes and held her gaze. "Olivia," he said very intently. "I want your help. I want to be here. But I'm not brave enough to break this promise. On the other hand, I can't keep you from finding out the truth."

"No," she replied. "You can't."

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Tuesday Noon**

"Olivia!" Astrid said excitedly as her fellow agent walked into the lab. "Thank God you're here."

"Why," Olivia replied quickly. "Is anything wrong?"

"I have to go to the bathroom," Astrid said, jumping up the steps that lead to the door. "Come with me."

"You know," Walter's voice chuckled from somewhere in the room. It took Olivia a moment to realize that he was on the ground on the other side of the room, sitting in one of the small patches of light streaming in through the frosted glass. "Belly and I had a hypothesis about why women always went to the bathroom together. We assumed the behavior was akin to communal yawning, once one member of the community does it out of necessity, the others are psychosomatically compelled to imitate the behavior to solidify the social bond."

"It never occurred to him that women leave to talk about men in private," Astrid said tersely under her breath.

Olivia choked back a laugh, "We'll be right back, Walter."

The two women walked out of the room into the empty halls of the Keslig building. Almost immediately, Astrid started venting.

"I don't know how Peter does it," she said. "I really, truly, don't."

"That bad, eh?"

"Walter is a sweet, sweet man," Astrid said. "And you know I like him despite . . . well, just about everything he's ever done. But I can't control him. I can't even cajole him the way Peter can. I've got Broyles' on the one side wanting to know what Water's done with the devices from Parnas's lab and the fact is, he's done nothing. I can't even entice him to open the box! And then I've got Walter, on the other side, reading Bell's thirty-year-old research aloud, toking off behind my back, claiming it will help him understand it better, and demanding I get him snacks. I can't do this, Olivia! We need Peter."

"Does Bell's research have any . . ."

"Who knows?" Astrid said, exasperated. "I can't understand what he's saying the way Peter can. Peter knows what questions to ask Walter. He knows which answers are useful. All I know is, when high, Walter finds the word cerebellum hilarious."

"Well, then, I've got some good news for you," Olivia said. "I need you to do some entirely routine research for me."

"As long as it doesn't have to do with Soul Magnets, I'm in," Astrid said.

"Great," Olivia replied enthusiastically. "Peter's admitted that he lied about what he did in Florida, but he refuses to tell the truth."

"You're kidding," Astrid said, flabbergasted.

"I need you to go through the flight records," Olivia replied. "Then compare them to car rentals and hotel stays. Peter let it slip that he went down there for someone he's not brave enough to cross – which screams 'organized crime' to me, so see if his records match any of those from his known criminal associates."

"He has known criminal associates?" Astrid asked.

"It's all in his department file," Olivia replied dismissively. "Put together as complete an itinerary as you can."

"No problem," Astrid said.

"One more thing," Olivia said. "Peter's set to be released at three p.m. Will you be OK here with Walter, or should I send someone over to back you up?"

"Where will you be?"

"Tailing Peter," Olivia said.

"Do you think he'd lead you to the people who hired him?"

"He made it clear it would be worth my while," Olivia replied.

"What did he say?"

"Nothing, really," Olivia admitted. "But he wants answers as much as we do, and he knows we have resources he doesn't."

"So," Astrid said, clarifying. "You're assuming he'll let you follow him."

"'Let' has nothing to do with it," Olivia replied. "I will follow him. I'm assuming he's going to make it easy."

"Well," Astrid said with a sigh. "At least if he heads here, I'll know you're right behind."

"So you'll be all right?"

"I'm sure we will," Astrid said.

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Tuesday 3 p.m.**

Broyles notified Charlie that Olivia was going to focus on investigating Peter's unusual behavior, but beyond that he had taken no steps to assist, or hinder, her investigation. She knew Charlie would be very busy sorting through the information coming in from Peru, so she decided to only ask for his help if she desperately needed it.

With Astrid doing the research, Olivia was free to focus on the fieldwork – primarily, trailing Peter. She didn't have think long about how she would do it. He'd all-but asked her to follow him, so she doubted he'd work too hard to shake the tail. However, she still thought it wise to appear as inconspicuous as possible. She chose to wear a nice pair of dark jeans, black boots that she could walk in all day, and a white dress shirt covered by a hoody. She put a black suit, and a black long sleeved t-shirt in her backpack, feeling that combination of cloths would carry here just about anywhere. Also in her backpack were her toothbrush, a nightshirt, her laptop, and several extra clips for her gun. She didn't know how long or how far she would have to follow Peter – and she wanted to be prepared.

Peter was released promptly at 3:00 p.m. and started walking, with an unhurried gate, towards his hotel. Olivia followed and, as he went in to the lobby, she popped into the Starbucks across the street. She knew he didn't want to see Walter, so she felt it was safe to assume he wouldn't stay there long. She sat at a small table next to the window, close to the door, and called Astrid while she waited for her coffee to cool.

"Hey," she said, as soon as the younger agent answered.

"Hey," Astrid replied, sounding nervous. "Is he coming, should I get Walter to . . ."

"No, I don't think so," Olivia said. "He's at the hotel now. I'm gonna keep tracking him, but I don't think he'll head you're way.

"Have you got anything for me?"

"Um, maybe," Astrid said. "But its . . . to be honest, I don't like it."

"OK, well, what is it?"

"So, Peter left on last Thursday afternoon, right."

"Yeah."

"I've got him on a plain to New York. After that, he disappears until Monday morning, when he used his credit card to pay a fifty-five-dollar fee at a Walk-in clinic in Manhattan, then he's listed as a passenger for the flight he came back on. "

"Manhattan?" Olivia asked, bewildered. "Are you saying he didn't go to Florida?"

"I'm saying he didn't charge anything to his credit or debit card in Florida," Astrid said. "And he didn't take any significant amount of cash out of his account before the trip– just fifty dollars at the ATM in the Union on Thursday morning."

"That won't go far on a vacation," Olivia commented. "But maybe his friend paid for . . ."

"Everything?" Astrid prompted. "Including the tickets? Peter did not buy one plane ticket for last week. The tickets he used from Boston to New York and back were bought by a credit card owned by Massive Dynamic."

"Massive Dynamic?" Olivia asked, bewildered.

"Yeah, I thought that was weird too," Astrid said. "So I did a little digging and found out what else was charged to that card."

"What else?" Olivia asked nervously.

"A business class ticket to Iquitos, Peru for a Peadar Rook."

"Peadar Rook?"

"I looked at the records; it's a very familiar face on a Danish passport."

"So Peter went to Peru?" Olivia asked.

"On Thursday night – overnight flight."

"And he came back . . ."

"Sunday night, got in at 6:30 a.m. Monday morning."

"At which time he went and reported to Nina Sharp . . ."

" . . .before going to the walk-in clinic conveniently located two blocks from the Massive Dynamic headquarters."

"After that, he gets on a plane to Boston. Charlie and I pick him up, and we start investigating a Peruvian scientist who happened to work for Massive Dynamic." Olivia said. "To be honest, I'm impressed by his gall."

"Maybe you should arrest him again," Astrid suggested. "You could charge him with hindering a federal investigation – maybe even conspiracy or perjury. Even if the charges melt away, at least we'd know where he was."

"I don't think locking Peter up is going to lead us to the truth," Olivia said.

"You think he'll lead you to the truth?" Astrid asked.

"I don't even think I need him to lead me, anymore," Olivia said. "I'm pretty sure I know exactly where the truth is."

**To be continued . . .**


	6. Going to Peru

**Tuesday–3:30 p.m.**

Peter stayed in the hotel for about a half an hour – a reasonable amount of time for him to shower, change cloths, and pack the duffle back he was carrying when he left. He walked about two miles, Olivia following him all the way, and reached Boston South Station. Olivia watched him buy a ticket, and, once he'd left for the platform, she bought her own.

"There was a man just here," she told the young man at the ticket counter. "White, with brown hair and blue eyes wearing a black pea coat. Where did he get a ticket to?"

"Um, I'm not sure I could . . ." the young man said.

Olivia pulled out her badge. "Where did he get a ticket to?" she asked again.

"New York," the young man said quickly.

"Give me a ticket for the same train," she said, putting her badge away.

"Um, Ok, ma'am," the young man said, quickly entering the information into his computer as she pulled out her agency-issued credit card. "That guy, he wasn't . . . he's not dangerous, at all, is he? Because I could call station security to back you up."

"That's not necessary," Olivia said.

"Is he a criminal?" the young man said.

"He's a person of interest," Olivia replied.

"Is he dangerous?" the young man asked as the ticket was being printed.

"If he posed any danger, we would not allow him to travel on public transportation," Olivia said.

"Are you sure, because, station security is . . ."

"Sir," Olivia clipped. "If you call station security and alert that man that he is being followed, I will arrest you for hindering a federal investigation. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," the young man said meekly as he handed her the ticket. "Here you are, and enjoy your trip."

Olivia grabbed the ticket and proceeded, very carefully, onto the platform. Of all the places she could lose or be spotted by Peter, this was the most likely. The platform was only about ten yards across and afforded very little cover for anyone trying to be inconspicuous. Accordingly, Olivia would have to hang back, far away from Peter, if she wanted to stay out of his potential line of vision. That meant that Peter would have the opportunity of jumping on any number of trains that happened to come by before the express to New York, and Olivia might not be quick enough to follow him.

But, to Olivia's relief, Peter never scanned the platform to see if anyone he knew was on it. In fact, he didn't even glance casually around looking for something to hold his interest while he waited for the train. Instead he stood at the edge of the platform, looking straight ahead at the advertisements on the wall on the other side. Olivia wondered if it was the ad for the butterfly exhibit at the Museum of Science or the ad for Le Cordon Blue School of Culinary Arts that he found so engrossing.

Two trains came and went before the Amtrak express to New York pulled up. Peter got on one car; Olivia got on the next one just before the door closed. There were no stops until Penn Station. She had three hours to plan her next move.

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Tuesday–7:50 p.m.**

Peter tried to care about the college football game that was playing on the large TVs at the terminal. He'd spent the last three days in a hospital room, then in a holding cell, wondering what had happened to him. He was going to spend the next several days, or weeks, or moths, or years finding the truth. But, for the present, he had forty minutes until his plane took off, and he longed to think about something other than his recent past or uncertain future.

He almost succeeded in momentarily forgetting his troubles after Texas A&M kicked a spectacular 52 yard field goal, bringing the score to 14-13. But right as the show broke for commercials a familiar voice asked, "Mind if I sit here?"

Peter looked up and smiled. "Waiting for a plane?"

"I am, actually," Olivia said as she sat in the segmented chair next to Peter's. "I'm going to Peru."

"Really?" Peter asked. "The Parmas investigation?"

"I might help Charlie with a little footwork down there," Olivia said. "But, that's not the reason for my visit."

"Isn't it?"

"I'm actually going because Nina Sharp asked me to."

Peter's playful demeanor darkened, "Olivia," he said, suddenly serious. "What exactly, did Nina ask you to do?"

"Well, Peter, answer me this," Olivia counted. "What, exactly, did she ask you to do?"

Peter stared at her for a moment. The question had caught him off guard, and she could tell that he was trying to make a decision.

"I know you went to Peru," Olivia said, hoping to tip his mental calculations in her favor. "I know Massive Dynamic paid for the trip. Astrid figured that much out. When I asked Nina Sharp about it, she said she'd asked you to go down as a closer for some land usage deal she was trying to broker with an indigenous tribe. She said you went down, you closed the deal, and you came back. "

"That's all she told you?" Peter asked.

"In so many words," Olivia replied. "Peter, is she the one you're protecting?"

"I'm protecting myself," Peter asserted. "But, yes, Nina was the employer I didn't want to tell you about."

"Why?" Olivia pressed. "Did she ask you to do something illegal?"

"Probably not," Peter admitted. "I'm not really up on international trade law. But, I am more-than aware of the non-disclosure form she demanded I sign."

"All this trouble for a non-disclosure form?" Olivia asked, surprised by his seemingly ethical compulsion.

"I've crossed some dangerous people in my life," Peter said. "Powerful people too. But, after what we've seen the past few months, after what we know Massive Dynamic can do – I'm not going to risk crossing them."

Olivia considered his statement for a moment. "Understandable," she finally said. "And you know I'd love to find proof that Massive Dynamic is responsible for some of the horrors we've seen - but, after talking to Nina, I really don't think she had anything to do with whatever made you attack your father."

"As much as I'd love to blame Nina Sharp, I have to agree with you," Peter said. "I just don't see what she'd gain by shutting us down."

"We'd stop poking into her business," Olivia offered.

"She's used us as much, if not more, than we've used her," Peter said. "I can't think of a single investigation that she didn't come out ahead on."

"She may think her luck is about to run out."

"People like her don't rely on luck," Peter said with certainty. "But, even if this was an elaborate plan of Nina Sharp's to stop Fringe Division's investigations, whatever she had done to me was done in Peru. The answers, one way or the other, are down there."

"And you're going to need help to find them."

"Just this morning you told me you couldn't help me."

"I lied," Olivia answered simply.

"To my face," Peter said with an impressed laugh.

"And you bought it," Olivia said, unable to hide her smile.

"I had my doubts," Peter said. "You have to admit, I was the easiest tail of your life."

"Not true," Olivia said. "In college I followed a friend of mine's boyfriend for an entire weekend to see if he was cheating on her."

"Was he?" Peter asked.

"Technically, he was cheating on all three of the women he was seeing."

"You think a guy that promiscuous would be more careful."

"A guy that promiscuous is either very stupid, or very smart," Olivia said. "Clive was defiantly the former."

"See, now I'm worried I was too easy to follow," Peter said. "I don't want to be grouped with that guy."

"Well, tell me what happened in Peru and I promise to think well of you," Olivia said.

Peter offered her a faint smile before taking a deep breath and soberly recounting his weekend in South America. "Nina Sharp asked me to go down to Peru to help close a deal with an Amazonian tribe. Massive Dynamic wants to mine on their land; apparently, they're living on a goldmine of some hyper conductive alloy. "

"Why you?" Olivia asked.

"Because I'm good at closing deals," Peter said. "Especially with people who don't care about money. All the Aymara really wanted was a clinic where the doctors spoke their native language – which is only spoken by about 300 tribe members, by the way. The chief elder lost two wives in childbirth and a child to complications from a broken arm. He would have made almost any deal for access to decent healthcare, but the suits Massive Dynamic sent down before thought that providing each Aymaran kid the money they'd need to go get their M.D.s would solve that problem. Never mind sending the tribal kids to Lima for education would not only take years, but actually destroy the cultural heritage the elders were trying to preserve."

"Did you close the deal?"

"Yeah," Peter said. "Once someone actually listened to what the Aymara wanted, it wasn't hard. I got in on Thursday night, we spent all day Friday negotiating and then . . . things get hazy."

"Hazy?"

"I probably should have told you this before," Peter said. "But attacking Walter wasn't my first bout of memory loss. I can't remember any of Saturday and most of Sunday. I think I got drunk, or high, or something at the celebratory feast we had Friday night. Then next thing I remember, I'm in my hotel room on Sunday afternoon with a nurse who says I've been sick for two days."

"You had a nurse in your hotel room?" Olivia asked.

"Hollingbrook, Massive Dynamic's chief suit in Peru, was worried about me. He hired her to make sure I was OK. As far as I can tell, she thought I'd suffered a concussion."

"That's odd," Olivia said.

"Hollingbrook came and saw me before I flew out Sunday night – said he was sorry that I'd missed my chance at sightseeing, that I should come back some time – all the small talk you'd expect from an executive. When I got back and reported to Sharp, she repeated Hollingbrook's regrets, though, apparently, he'd told her the water made me sick.

"Now, I've traveled all around the world, and I've been sick more than once from the local fare – and this wasn't that. A stomach bug doesn't explain the broken rib, and nothing natural or accidental explains the skin on my arms or the burns behind my ears. "

"Peter, you should have told us immediately," Olivia said seriously. "If Massive Dynamic was experimenting on you . . ."

"What could you have done?" Peter asked. "I signed the forms that said I wouldn't talk about it, and whatever happened happened outside of your jurisdiction."

"So you were just going to let them use you?" Olivia asked with disbelief.

"The weird thing is, I didn't think about it," Peter replied. "At the time it just didn't seem worth thinking about. Even now, when I know whatever happened in Peru is important I have a really hard time focusing on the question. It's like my mind has been programed to ignore the memory gap."

"So, you do think that someone programed, or brain washed, or hypnotized you to do this?"

"They must have," Peter said. "Believe me, I don't want to hurt Walter – or jeopardize one of your investigations."

"But who is 'they?" Olivia countered. "Astrid said that you traveled under a Danish Passport."

"Yeah," Peter said.

"Did you use that alias throughout?"

"I did, actually," Peter said.

"So, as far as anyone in Peru is concerned, you're Peader Rook – no reason to think you'd be associated with Walter Bishop."

"Except, Nina Sharp knows the truth," Peter said. "And I can't say who I told on Saturday or Sunday, intentionally or accidentally."

"Hmmm," Olivia said thoughtfully. "Peter, you have to have considered this from every angle, and I know you don't have any satisfying answers yet – but what do you think happened?"

"Like I said, I can't really think about this," Peter told her hesitatingly. "Not clearly. But, it seems like someone down in Peru is doing something they really shouldn't be. I think it must have something to do with Parmas. Why else would he call me?"

"How would he get your number?"

"I don't know," Peter said. "Though, for all I do know, I gave it to them, along with my social security number and my mother's maiden name."

"Ok, so, the way I see it, we have two distinct investigations that seem to have a connection. The problem is, we don't know enough about either case to know why they are connected. The only way we'll be able to find the connection is if we investigate the cases on their own merits.

"You speak Spanish, don't you?"

"I'm reasonably fluent," Peter said. "What do you propose?"

"I'll investigate the Massive Dynamic angle; try to figure out what happened to you while you were down there. Meanwhile, you can investigate the Parmas angle – try and find out if anyone has any idea why he did what he did, and who he works for."

"Isn't that a little backwards?" Peter asked. "I have no authority to investigate a Federal terrorism case, and you have no authority to question employees of Massive Dynamic."

"Except that Nina Sharp gave me the authority," Olivia said. "When I explained the situation to her, she was all too happy to have me go down and look into it. She's already called her man in Peru, so Hollingbrook I guess, and told him to offer me every courtesy."

"Nice," Peter said. "But I still don't . . ."

"You have as much authority as you did before," Olivia said, pulling his consultant's badge out of her pocket and handing it to him. "Which, admittedly, isn't a lot. But it's enough to justify asking a few questions."

"I thought you said my contract would be terminated," Peter said, smiling broadly at her as he took the credentials.

"I didn't get around to filing the paper work," Olivia said with a shrug.

"You know, when they didn't give this back to me this afternoon, I was sure I'd never see it again," Peter said.

"Just goes to show you, you never know what the future holds," Olivia replied.

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Wednesday–8:15 a.m.**

"This is Francis," Charlie said into his cell phone, even though he didn't recognize the number. Any call, even a telemarketer, would be more enjoyable then trying to decipher the pile of handwritten notes from Parmas's lab which were currently dominating his desk.

"Hi Charlie," Olivia said warmly. "How's it going?"

"Slow and steady, I guess," Charlie said. "Where are you calling from, Liv? I didn't recognize the number."

"A payphone in the Lima airport," Olivia said.

"Did I here you right?" Charlie asked. "Lima, Peru?"

"You heard me," Olivia said.

"I thought Broyles had you following Bishop."

"He does, and I did," Olivia said. "Turns out I was right about Peter's little vacation."

"There's a shocker," Charlie said good-naturedly.

"Peter wasn't with a hooker, and he wasn't in Florida. He was in Peru running errands for Massive Dynamic."

"Why the hell didn't he tell us that up front?" Charlie asked.

"He didn't want to cross somebody who can kill you with your own fear – to name one of many horrible deaths that company may be responsible for," Olivia said. "But, Charlie, here's the deal. Peter can't remember what happened here, just like he can't remember the attack on Walter. I talked to Nina Sharp about it; I don't think she knows any more than Peter. She authorized me to come down here and investigate the Massive Dynamic offices in Iquitos. She claims I'll have full access, so if Massive Dynamic is behind any of this, we'll know."

"This case, or maybe these cases, keep getting weirder and weirder, Liv," Charlie sighed. "Either it's the biggest coincidence in the history of the universe, or it's one damn confusing conspiracy."

"Either way, the answers are here in Peru, which brings me to why I'm calling."

"Telling me you left the country wasn't reason enough?"

"Peter is here with me."

"You took Bishop to another country so that he could investigate his own crime," Charlie asked incredulously.

"You know Peter is not responsible," Olivia said dismissively.

"Did he at least use a valid passport?" Charlie demanded. "Or are you aiding and abiding criminal activity?"

"I'm not a customs officer, Charlie," Olivia said. "I'm and FBI agent and I'm trying to maximize the agencies efficacy in untangling this mess. To that end, is there anything you want Peter to do while he's here in Lima?"

"You're kidding, right Liv?" Charlie asked.

"I've got to go on to Iquitos and meet up with the Massive Dynamic people, but since I'll be investigating Peter's end of the mystery, he suggested that he stay here and investigate ours."

"So let me get this straight," Charlie said. "The two of you decided to go to Peru . . ."

"Peter was going to Peru, and since there's only one flight a day, I thought I'd better take it."

"And now you want him to investigate someone who may or may not be his accomplice in an attempted murder of his father."

"When you put it like that . . ." Olivia started.

"I'll be sure not to put it like that in the report to Broyles," Charlie said. "Truth is, it'd be really helpful to have someone to do a little bit of background work – and Peter's good at getting the feel of a place. I've got a handful of people and locations Parmas kept in touch with in Peru, but I have no idea if it's because they're a front for a terrorist organization, or because he used to play soccer with the guy behind the bar."

"Great," Olivia said. "He's right here. You want to give him your instructions?"

"Sure," Charlie said. "And, Liv, one more thing."

"Yeah?"

"Try and have a little bit of fun while you're down there."

"Charlie," Olivia scolded, "this is not remotely a vacation."

"But it's probably the closest thing you've had in the past five years," Charlie countered. "Just go out one night, get a drink, buy some touristy trinkets, and enjoy the tropical air. No one is going to call you in to investigate a freak of the week."

"I'll keep that in mind," she said. He could hear the smile in her voice, and that made him smile too. "Now, here's Peter."

~B~R~E~A~K~

"This is it, this is it!" Walter said excitedly. "Nineteen-Seventy-Seven, military programing for specialized soldiers!"

"What's it?" Astrid asked looking up excitedly. She'd been reading, or trying to read, short hand notes taken by some graduate assistant who was observing an experiment Walter and William Bell conducted on a set of parrots, trying to transmit the vocabulary of one parrot into the mind of the other through a series of condensed audio clips. It was confusing, mind numbing, and almost certainly pointless – as the experiments never seemed to go anywhere.

"The army wanted help training their recruits," Walter explained. "The Vietnam War was in full swing, and they found that many of the drafted soldiers lacked the drive necessary to truly master the skills taught at boot camp. They wanted us to develop a way to program the soldiers, automatically instill them with a set of skills and, in some cases, even with a mission plan."

"Programmable soldiers?" Astrid asked nervously. "Why does that sound like a terrible idea?"

"Undoubtedly because you put a premium on individuality and free will," Walter said dismissively. "As both are, to a greater or lesser extent, illusionary, I found the concept a delightful challenge."

"I'm almost afraid to ask, but did you do it? Did you program people?"

"Oh, yes," Walter said cheerfully. "Using direct neural stimuli, we were able to imprint thoughts, actions, directly into a person's brain. Unfortunately those thoughts manifested as self-contained neural impulses."

"Meaning?" Astrid prompted.

"Meaning, the subject had no way to access them. Quite often, the trauma of the experiment, which was quite painful, put the subject into a minor state of shock, causing them to suppress the memory of the experiment. So not only did they lack the tools to access their new thought patterns, they often didn't even remember that they had thoughts to access."

"OK," Astrid said. "Your subjects underwent memory loss, just like Peter did. But we hadn't even started experimenting on Peter yet . . ."

"No, no, of course not," Walter said. "By releasing his subconscious through the use of these drugs, the suppressed memories were allowed to rise to the surface and he reacted not to me, but to the scientists who had performed the initial procedure. Isn't that wonderful?"

"Why is that wonderful?" Astrid asked, completely lost.

"My son doesn't hate me!" Walter said joyfully. "He hates them!"

"But, wait," Astrid said, still trying to wrap her mind around all Walter had told her. "I thought you said that he was accessing the actions they programed into him . . ."

"Oh no," Walter chuckled, as if her assumption was absolutely ridiculous. " Integrating those actions into the consciousness is much more complicated. I simply recreated the situation and sensations of his original procedure of when he was imprinted, and Peter reacted as he would if he met those scientist again."

"He'd kill them?" Astrid asked nervously.

"If he were high, perhaps he would," Walter responded. "I think, speaking generally, we can say he would attempt to stop the procedure."

"OK," Astrid said, taking a deep breath and trying to think through the information Walter had given her. "So, Peter was programed with some set of action or knowledge – but we don't know what and we don't know why. When you gave him the drugs, his repressed memories of the trauma of being programed surfaced and he attacked you because he thought that you were the scientist who programed him."

"Yes, exactly!"

"But, if that's the case, why did he forget attacking you?"

"The human brain is very, very complex," Walter said. "To ask why it works one way and not another in situations like this, without control groups, without repeatable circumstances, is fruitless."

"So you don't know," Astrid clarified.

"I hypothesize that the memories that should have been formed while Peter was under the influence of the drugs were linked to his suppressed memories, so that when he regained his cognition they were lost, along with the original traumatic memories."

"Well, I guess that makes as much sense as anything else."

"The key at this point is to discover what information was implanted in Peter's brain so that we may determine who implanted it, and why."

"If Peter can't access it, how will we ever know?" Astrid asked.

"We can wait to see if the behaviors manifest themselves," Walter said. "But that seems tedious, not to mention dangerous. It's possible he was programed to do something entirely mundane, like call a certain person at a certain time and pass on a message – in which case he may have already done it. Or they could be something spectacularly dangerous . . ."

"Like planning one of Parmas's bombs."

"In which case we cannot take the risk. No, we must extract the memories."

"But I thought you said they would be inaccessible."

"Oh, they would be, to Peter, in his consciences state," Walter assured her. "But there are triggers, compulsions, things beneath consciousness. We were able to program undergrads who had never held a gun to field strip and reassemble a hand gun in fifteen seconds when they heard a bell chime. That was all very well and good, but bells don't chime in battlefields, and without the bells the students were clueless; some refused to touch the gun, while others played with them like toys. There was actually a rather lively debate about the right to bear arms, but everything stopped when we rang the bell. They entered a trance and began performing their task with a proficiency that a professional marksman would envy. Once they were done, they returned immediately to what they had been doing. We were actually able to document a student stopping in mid-sentence, performing the task, and continuing his thought afterward as if nothing had happened."

"Peter did seem to be in a trance," Astrid commented. "Are you sure that attacking you wasn't the programed behavior?"

"I suppose it is possible," Walter admitted. "But we will have to reintegrate the memories into his consciousness to know for sure."

"So, you can do that?" Astrid asked.

"Naturally. Do you think we would have stopped half way through the experiment?"

"Well, no," Astrid said nervously. "But if you found a way to integrate these thoughts, why isn't the army using your techniques now . . . or are they?"

"I suppose they might be," Walter said. "I never really thought about it. They would have had to refine the procedures of course."

"Refine how?"

"Well, the technique Belly and I devised worked wonderfully, in multiple trials, except it was excruciatingly painful, though, not as painful as the initial programing."

"Of course," Astrid said, nodding knowingly.

"In fact," Walter continued. "Many of the test subjects had adverse psychological effects to the tasks they were programed to perform. One young man, in particular, we taught the value of pie to the hundredth digit. He knew it, unquestionably, but if he tried to recite it he would begin to stammer, and if he tried to write it down, his hands would shake so badly that it was hardly legible. By the time he got to the sixtieth digit he was a sobbing mess, so we let him stop."

"Gee," Astrid said sarcastically. "How nice of you."

"I would have preferred to press him on to the hundredth," Walter said, oblivious to her sarcasm. "But the odds of him knowing two thirds of the answer and not all of it were minuscule. And, to be honest, his sobs were very disconcerting to the graduate students working across the hall."

"Oh dear Lord," Astrid said in disbelief.

"The point is, we need to get Peter in here immediately so we can determine what he was programed to do!"

"But, Walter, we can't," Astrid said.

"Of course we can. Call him. Right now."

"Walter, I can't," Astrid said again.

"Nonsense, the phone is right there," Walter said, pointing to Astrid's cell, which was sitting on the table next to the papers she'd been reading through.

"But Peter couldn't' receive the call," Astrid insisted.

"Why on Earth not?" Walter demanded.

"Because he's out of the country," Astrid said.

"You deported him?" Walter asked with horror.

"No, Walter," Astrid insisted firmly. "He went to Peru with Olivia to investigate Juan Parmas's connections."

"He went to Peru?" Walter asked, horrified. "Why on earth would he do such a thing?"

"I told you," Astrid said. "He's helping Olivia investigate . . ."

"Olivia investigated things without his help before now," Walter interjected angrily. "Doesn't he realize that I need him more than she does?"

"Well, Walter," Astrid said, trying to calm him down. "We didn't know what was behind Peter's behavior . . ."

"But now we do know!"

" . . . so everyone, including Peter, thought it would be best if he stayed away from you."

"There is staying away, and there is running to a different continent," Walter insisted. "How do you expect me to work here without his aid?"

"Well, you figured out what happened to him without . . ."

"These conditions are unacceptable!" Walter said angrily. "I cannot possibly move forward with my investigations without adequate support."

"Walter, I'm still here," Astrid said, trying not to be insulted by his inference.

"Well, if I need someone to translate the Iliad or defrag my hard drive while I'm trying to reconstruct a device that changes the essence of matter, I'm sure you'll be very helpful."

"Fine," Astrid said angrily. "I have actual case work to do. I'm going into the office and, unless you have something new and interesting to share about the stuff from Parmas's lab, I don't want to hear it."

"Are you dismissing me as if I were some sort of insolent undergraduate?" Walter demanded hotly.

"I am dismissing myself," Astrid said, with a strained control on her anger as she turned and walked away from him, leaving the old man alone in the lab.

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Wednesday 10:30 a.m.**

"Miss Olivia Dunham?" A very young man with dark red skin, deep set brown eyes, short, jet black hair and a dazzling smile asked.

"That's me," Olivia said.

"On behalf of Mister Roger Hollingbrook and the staff of Massive Dynamic, may I be the first to welcome you to Iquitos," the young man said. "Please allow me to take your bag, Ma'am."

Olivia handed him her suitcase and asked "And where is Mister Rodger Hollingbrook?" with calculated distain.

"He is waiting in the car, Ma'am," the young man said. "If you will follow me, Ma'am, I will take you there."

"All right," Olivia said as she started to follow the young man through the press of people at the airport. "Is there any reason he did not come in to greet me himself?"

"Mr. Hollingbrook finds the airport stifling – that is the word he used," the young man said. "He prefers to wait in the air-conditioned car."

"I see," Olivia said dryly. In her assumed official capacity of an auditor sent to Iquitos by Nina Sharp, Olivia felt she had to show general distain for the suspicious Hollingbrook in all situations. She wanted him to sweat, even if he was in a comfortable air-conditioned car.

The young man led her through the crowded, muggy, and hot airport. By the time they reached the doors, Olivia was sweating under her dark suit and she felt a little more empathy for Hollingbrook's decision to stay where it was cool.

She was led to a large, black, luxury SUV. The young man opened the passenger side back door and Olivia looked in to see a white man in his late forties, very fit and tan, with a thick mane of white hair, a strong, smooth jawline, and tiny dark eyes. "Miss Dunham," the man said gregariously, holding out his hand to help her up. She accepted it and was quickly sitting next to him on the comfortable and cool leather car seat. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Roger Hollinghbrook."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hollinghrook."

"Please call me Roger," Hollinghrook said as his eyes drifted from her face and scrutinized the rest of her body. "We're very informal down here – not like New York. The 'big business' model Massive Dynamic likes to use doesn't work well in the jungle. Let me get you a drink," he said, turning to a small cooler in the foot well between their seats. "Gin and tonic?"

"A little early, isn't it," Olivia asked.

"It's beastly hot and disgustingly humid out there," Hollingbrook commented. "I'm just trying to make you more comfortable. If you like, I'm pretty sure Huayna keeps some bottled water in the front."

"Yeah, I think I'd prefer that at ten in the morning," Olivia clipped. "Do you usually start the day with a drink?"

"Do you usually start your audits before you see the office?" Hollingbrook asked.

"I started it when your driver meet me at the plane instead of you," she informed him.

Olivia expected that comment to shut the man up, but instead he smiled at her. "I see why Nina's so fond of you. But, like I said, big business – and aggressive women – don't really work in this environment. That's why Rook was so good."

Their conversation was interrupted when the young driver entered the car. Hollingbrook procured a bottle of water for Olivia. As she opened it, they started driving through the tangle of traffic in the airport into the old Spanish city.

"You mentioned Peader Rook," Olivia said once she'd quenched her thirst. "I'll need to hear a lot more about him."

"He was only here for three days, and he was sick for two of them. I don't have much to tell. I think you'll find the reports from the previous negotiators Nina sent down much more interesting."

"And I'll need to meet with the Aymara," Olivia continued. "I assume you could arrange that in the next day or so?"

"Meet the Aymara?" Hollingbrook scoffed. "That's not exactly easy to arrange."

"I understood that you were in the initial stages of surveying their land for the mine," Olivia asserted. "Surely you must have people on the ground. What's one more?"

"We are interviewing workers who know Aymarian – or one of its very, very few sister languages" Hollingbrook said. "Do you know how hard it is to find a geologist who speaks a native dialect that exists only in a ten mile radius of wilderness? I'm searching the globe, and expending not inconsiderable capital, just to find applicants who would be willing to learn it!"

"Even if you don't have people on the ground now, you have the right and the expectation to have people there," Olivia insisted. "Which means, you have the right, and I have the expectation, of showing me the site and introducing me to the chieftain and council of elders."

Hollingbrook sighed, "I suppose you're the boss – or, the bosses' representative."

"I am," Olivia insisted.

"It'll take a bit to get the meeting set up," Hollingbrook said. "Until then, you can have fun digging through the old reports and office archives."

"Sounds like fun to me," Olivia said dryly.

"After a half an hour, you'll probably wish you'd accepted my drink."

"If that's the case, I'll call you in a half an hour and have you bring me one."

Again, Hollingbrook laughed at her insult. Olivia couldn't tell if it was because he thought she was joking, or because he didn't take her, or rather her assumed authority, seriously.

"Oh, yeah," Hollingbrook said with a good-natured chuckle. "You're more than Nina's representative; you are Nina to a T."

Olivia wasn't sure if he meant that as a complement, a statement of fact, or if he'd just returned the insult. However, regardless of his intent, she didn't like the comparison.

**To be continued . . .**


	7. Glad I Know You

**Wednesday 1:00 p.m.**

Peter walked through a newly developed suburb of Lima, looking at the house numbers, displayed on quaint painted tiles and posted on each identical stucco house. In America, the thee bedroom homes would have been considered 'entry level housing' to put it politely. But in the freshly paved suburb of Peru's capital, these were aspirational homes – reserved for the upper middle class.

Kids played soccer in the street, with a regulation ball, as men and women tended to their lawns and gardens up and down the street. Joggers passed him, and dog walkers shushed their barking animals as he walked by. No one found him, a clean-cut white man, the least bit suspicious. That alone told Peter a lot about the neighborhood.

As Peter approached the second address on his list, a house on the corner of the street with a particularly beautiful garden wrapping around it, he couldn't help but feel that this mysterious location had an entirely benign explanation. To the analysts in Boston, the fact that Parmas had paid for this little home with cash, and paid for its taxes, and called it regularly, was intriguing bordering on suspicious. But, seeing the home, it was obvious that Parmas had bought the house for his mother, or aunt, or some female relative who really loved to garden.

He turned off the street and started walking up the gravel pathway towards the house when a woman started yelling at him from the next yard. At first he ignored her, but the yelling became more insistent. Peter turned and their eyes met as she started communicating something very complicated rapidly in Spanish.

"_Slow down, please_," Peter said, holding out his hands as if in surrender. "_My Spanish is very weak_."

"S_eñora Parmas is away_," the woman said, speaking slower and also, for some reason, louder. "_Not here. Her house is empty_."

"_Do you know when she will be coming back?"_

"_Why do you want to see her?" _the woman asked.

"_I know Juan in America_," Peter said. "_When I told him I was coming to Lima, he said I should visit_."

The woman gasped. "_Her son, Juan?_ "

"_Yes_," Peter said, trying not to look too satisfied that his assumption had proven correct.

"_Oh, I am so sorry to bear bad news_," the woman said. "_Juan was killed in America_."

"_What_?" Peter asked, feigning ignorance. "_I do not think I understood_."

"_Juan is dead_," the woman said. "_A car hit him. He is dead._ S_eñora Parmas went to America to collect his body."_

"_Oh, no,"_ Peter said. _"I spoke to him last week. He was hit by a car?"_

"_That is what his mother said_," the woman confirmed with a compassionate nod. "_I am so sorry. Did you know him well?_"

"_It is so strange_," Peter continued, using his assumed grief and shock to avoid answering any questions. "_Juan is dead. I just cannot believe it. When did you say it happened?"_

"_Last week some time_," the woman said. "_His mother left on Monday_."

"This is unbelievable," Peter said in English, shaking his head. Then, turning to the woman and trying to look as earnestly upset as possible, he said "_Thank you so much for telling me. I give big sympathy to the family_." He knew that the last sentence was practically nonsense, and he could have done better if he wanted to take the time to think about it. But, at this point, he had all the information he needed and he wanted to get out of the conversation. "Thank you," he said in English. "Goodbye." Then he turned and walked back down the gravel path to the street. The woman called after him, asking his name so she could properly forward his sympathy, but he pretended not to understand, or even be listening. He had two more addresses to check on, and he was sure one of them would give Charlie a lead.

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Wednesday 4:45 p.m.**

Olivia skimmed the reports of the numerous negotiators Nina had sent before Peter and found them extremely dull. The persistent misunderstandings were curious, and the part of her brain that made connections where no connection should be started to wonder if Hollingbrook were sabotaging the endeavor. But, while that explanation may have accounted for the repeated collapse of negotiations between Massive Dynamic and the Aymara, it didn't explain why Peter was allowed to succeed. Besides, what corporate middleman in his right mind would keep his project form succeeding? Clearly, she was missing a factor in this situation.

Hollingbrook's official report on Peter's visit was odder still. The details on the contract had all been laid out in an appendixes document clearly written by a lawyer. Hollingbrook's own notes were scarcely more than an itinerary – when they went to visit the Aymara and when they got back. The only indication of what happened to Peter was a simple sentence "Rook was ill Saturday and Sunday. He recovered enough to send him home on his scheduled flight."

The explanation seemed woefully inadequate, and Olivia was surprised that Nina Sharp had not demanded more. But, she reasoned, Nina probably only cared about the contract – and she had discussed the details of the negotiation with Hollingbrook and Peter. She probably felt she knew all she needed to.

With a sigh, Olivia put the files back in the filling cabinet and turned to her laptop. She had to write her progress report for Broyles, and she'd promised to keep Nina Sharp updated. She was trying to think of a way to make 'no progress' sound like 'some progress' when there was a light tapping on the doorframe. Olivia looked up and saw Hollingbrook hovering in the doorway, smiling debonairly.

"Can I help you?" Olivia clipped.

"I was just wondering if you were ready for that gin and tonic," Hollingbrook said. "It's after five. Happy hour."

Olivia glanced down to the clock on her computer screen. It was 5:10.

"I have to write my initial report," she told him dryly.

"What do you have to report?" Hollingbrook asked. "All you've done is read the files that Nina Sharp has already read. I'm sure if she wanted a summary of the Aymara negotiations, she would have asked an intern in New York to do it, not sent her protégé to the jungle."

"I understand the scope of my assignment," Olivia said with a bland smile. "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't presume to explain it to me."

"Come on Ms. Dunham," Hollingbrook coaxed. "There's a cantina just across the street that actually makes a decent dry martini."

"I don't know how long you've been in Iquitos, Mr. Hollingbrook," Olivia said. "But in New York, we don't leave the office until the day's work is done. And, we don't drink dry martinis."

"Really?" Hollingbrook said, sounding intrigued as he stepped into the room. "What do people drink in New York?"

"Scotch," Olivia replied. "Good Scotch."

"I see," Hollingbrook said. "And they work through dinner?"

"If necessary."

"Well, I hope the age-old tradition of the business dinner has not died out," Hollingbrook continued. "Because, if so, I'm afraid you're going to have to endure an untrendy night."

"I didn't come here to be trendy," Olivia said. "What are you planning?"

"I called our head scientist, Dr. Hass, in to town. He likes to stay in his lab on our facilities just off the jungle – but he seemed very eager to meet you."

"And I'm eager to meet him," Olivia said genuinely. "He must have some contact with the Aymara if he's been studying their land, but he's not mentioned in any of these reports."

"Dr. Hass files his own reports," Hollingbrook said. "And what he does doesn't really relate to the business end."

"Massive Dynamic is a company founded on science," Olivia said, flabbergasted by Hollingbrook's lazie-fair attitude. "What he does is the business end."

"Well, he'd disagree with you," he countered. "But you two can discuss it tonight. I'd suggest over drinks, but I'm not sure there's a drop of 'good scotch' in the entire city."

"When's dinner?" Olivia asked.

"When are you ready?" Hollingbrook asked.

Olivia looked down at her laptop. She didn't have much to say now, but perhaps after dinner with the lead scientist, she would have found some answers, or at least, figured out which questions would lead to answers.

"You know," she said, closing the lap top and smiling up at her host. "You were right about the heat. A Gin and Tonic sounds pretty good about now."

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Wednesday 6:45 p.m.**

The streetlights of cosmopolitan downtown Lima were starting to come on. Not surprisingly, the small establishment in the heart of the capitol's business district was full of professionals – pencil pushers, bean counters, lower management and fun loving secretaries. Peter knew enough about the restaurant business to know that, while it was still entirely possible that the Después de horas bar and grill was a front, it would not need to be. If it got a crowd like this most weeknights, it would turn a profit. Also of note, the patrons seemed to be entirely business people of some stripe. This didn't look like a crowd who spent too much time thinking about economic justice, the way Juan Parmas apparently had.

Again, Peter's affluent, European appearance didn't raise any eyebrows as he sat down in a booth and smiled at the group of pretty women who were eyeing him from the bar. Two of the women giggled and looked away, but the other two spent the next twenty minutes taking turns smiling at him.

He ordered the night's special and a local brew. Unable to hide the fact that he was a foreigner, he decided it would be best to pretend he didn't speak Spanish at all, and was quickly attended to by a waitress in her mid-30s, with long, thick, curly black hair, a welcoming smile, and fluency in English.

"This place is really hopping," Peter observed. "Is it always like this?"

"Most work nights," the woman said. "We get a good lunch crowd too. But weekends are useless – occasionally we get wedding party or bar mitzvah, but usually we sit around and watch the football games."

"So, you're always here?" Peter asked. "Seems like a pretty demanding job for a waitress."

"We own this bar, my husband and I," the woman said proudly. "He's in the back, making your tacu tacu."

"Oh!" Peter said knowingly. "Then you must know Juan Parmas."

"Yes, of course," the woman said soberly. Her smile evaporated and her eyes sank to the ground. She obviously not only knew him, but knew of his death as well. "Juan and my husband are cousins – but they were raised like brothers."

"My name is Peter Bishop," Peter said, pulling out his FBI credentials. He knew they gave him no authority to ask questions, but he hoped she wouldn't know that. "I work with the FBI in America, and I'm down here to investigate some suspicious circumstances related to his death." That much, at least, was true. "I'd like to talk to you and your husband, if that's possible. I can see you're busy now, but I could come back after closing, or tomorrow before you open."

"I . . . " the woman said uncertainly. "I don't know that Mateo wants to talk about that."

"He doesn't have to," Peter said with a soft, compassionate tone in his voice. "But you need to know that the 'suspicious circumstances' I told you about relate to terrorism. Now, I've talked to Juan, and I don't believe that he would hurt anyone. But the evidence we have now . . . it doesn't make him look good. I'm trying to find the whole picture, all the evidence. I don't think he's a terrorist, but I may well need your husband's testimony to prove it."

The waitress considered that for a moment. Peter continued to look up at her, meeting her gaze, trying to impress upon her that he was genuinely there to help. She must have believed his assumed earnestness, because she sighed and said, "We close at eleven. We'll talk then."

"Thank you," Peter said.

He ate his dinner slowly, nursing two beers as he ate. Then he ordered a desert and coffee, which he also nursed. After that, he left a generous tip for his waitress while he moved to the bar and ordered another beer.

Throughout the night, he observed the patrons. They were all of the professional class – young and aspirational – they'd be called YUPIES in America. The women had designer purses; the men had expensive watches. They flirted playfully and exchanged gossip freely with each other and with the staff. All told, the atmosphere was that of a regular night in a bar filled with its regular clientele – a clientele that seemed particularly unlikely to be planning terrorist attacks on America.

By nine thirty, the crowd was thinning. By ten thirty, Peter shared the bar with three other patrons, a couple having a very good date – if her annoyingly high-pitched giggle was any indication – and a man who was probably friends with the bar tender, as the two of them were deeply involved in what Peter deduced was a personal conversation. When the bar closed at eleven, the friend exited and the bartender looked happy to be dismissed without the regular clean up duties.

"You can follow me to the back," the waitress said. "My husband will talk to you while we do dishes."

"Thank you," Peter said with a gracious smile before he entered the bar's kitchen. It was neat and modern, with stainless steel appliances, soap stone counters, and bright lights everywhere. In the corner, scrubbing a large cast iron skillet in a huge stainless steel sink, was the young restructure. At a glance Peter could tell that the two men were related. They had the same nose and skin tone, even though this man was much chubbier than Parmas had been, according to the FBI files. He was taller too, a good two inches taller than Peter, and generally had an impressive and commanding presence, though the kindness in his eyes was more reminiscent of Santa Claus than Big Eddie.

"You come to ask about Juan?" Mateo asked as his wife started mopping the other side of the kitchen. "You know his mother and my sister have gone to collect his body."

"I know," Peter said. "My colleges will probably talk to them. But, there are things a man does not tell his mother that he might tell his cousin – especially a cousin that's like a brother."

Mateo smiled sadly. "Juan was five years older than me, but sometimes it felt like fifty. Perhaps it's because of what happened to his father, but his mind was never on anything I could relate to. Don't get me wrong; we were close. But I was not a confidant of his deepest thoughts– I was the one he trusted to head the family while he was away."

"A deep thinker, was he?" Peter asked.

"The deepest," Mateo said. "God forgive me for saying this, but if his father had not died, Juan's life would have been wasted – though, I suppose, its come to very little now . . ."

"He's done some amazing research," Peter said. "Developed scientific advances that our best people have difficulty replicating."

"Then maybe his father's death has come to good," Mateo said with a sober hopefulness.

"You'll have to forgive me for asking some pretty basic questions, but there is a lot about Juan we don't know. Like, how did his father die? And why would that death come to good because of his research?"

"We were born in a mining town," Mateo explained. "His father was brother to my mother. When he got a job in the copper mines, he brought her to help his wife, who was pregnant with Juan at the time. though, she quickly married my father. Of course, they all new she'd find a husband with the miners."

"Of course," Peter said, hoping the back story would lead to something eventually.

"The family lived there for several years in the same large house. My sister, Isabel, was born there, and then I was. Then, when I was three, the mine collapsed. I can remember going, every day, to the head of the mine, watching the rescue crews go in and out. My mother and aunt chanted prayers constantly. After three days, my father came out – weak, with a broken leg, but alive. Then, on the fifth day, we stopped going to the head of the mine, and on the sixth day after the accident, we had a funeral for my uncle."

"I'm sorry."

"Whatever had caused the accident that took my father's life, it must have been the fault of the equipment or the supervisor, because a fancy lawyer from Lima came, with a suit and a tie. I serve these men every day, now, but when I was a child, he looked amazing and imposing. Impossibly rich and sophisticated. There was a settlement put on my aunt and on her children. She would be able to leave, take her child to a place with real opportunity. Luckily for me, she took Isabel and me as well. We all moved to Lima, to a three-room apartment, on the edges of the best neighborhood. There we were, the children of miners, going to the same schools as the children of doctors, and lawyers, and politicians."

"From what I know of Juan," Peter said. "I'm guessing he never really fit in."

Mateo laughed warmly at the characterization. "My cousin was smarter than all of them – which they resented. Their resentment made him resent them all the more. It wouldn't have been so bad if he had not worn his past on his chest like a badge of honor. Everyone knew he was a miner's son, while I doubt half the kids in the school realized Isabel and I were as well. But then, she was pretty and has natural charm. She finds friends easily enough. I'm friendly, and always game for a round of football or game of tennis. But Juan, he wants to talk only about certain things – if you don't' want to talk about science or global justice, well, you don't get to talk to Juan."

"I know the type," Peter said, remembering well his youthful attempts to have a relationship with his father twenty-some years ago.

"He talked to me, of course," Mateo said, "Because he does care about family. But, if you want to know what he was really thinking – I cannot help you. I only know that he was concerned about my nephew's grades, and he insisted that my children focus on school and never be forced to work here. Though, with the remittance he sent home each month, we barely have to work here." Mateo sighed . . . "I suppose that will all change."

"Seems likely," Peter said.

"Don't misunderstand," Mateo said. "I love Juan. He is a good man – possibly the best man I'll ever have the honor to know. Life's sorrows gave him opportunities, and he took them. He told me he was going to make a way to mine so that men would not have to go in the ground and no little boy would lose his father ever again."

"That's . . . that's true," Peter said, somewhat surprised to hear the research he'd thought of as 'prelude to terrorism' being described as the life saving advance it, unquestionably, was.

"Then his father's death was not in vain," Mateo said. "And Juan's life will be honored by the lives of our children."

"I'm sure he'd be glad to hear that," Peter said.

"Mateo," his wife said, scolding. "You have not let this young man ask any questions. He does not want to hear about our family's grief."

"Actually, you told me exactly what I wanted to hear," Peter said. "Thank you for your time."

"But," she continued worriedly. "You thought that Juan might be involved . . . "

"Involved in what?" Mateo asked.

"He was involved in many things," Peter responded cryptically. "But, at least, I'm convinced he would not have involved you in anything dangerous or disreputable."

"You think Juan was doing something dangerous and . . . what was the word, disreputable . . . I'm not sure what that word means."

"It means there is a reason that the American Law Enforcement wants to know more about him," Peter said. "Though, it doesn't necessarily mean that he's guilty of anything. "

"And you suspected us . . ." the woman asked, alarm growing in her eyes.

"We needed to know why you were so important to Juan, why he called you twice a week." Peter said. "And now it's obvious – he loved you."

"He did," Mateo insisted, as if that fact proved Juan's innocents on the other accusations.

"And I hope your cousins life will be honored by the lives of your children, like you said. Juan sounds like a pretty amazing person, and I wish I'd known him better."

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Wednesday, 8:45 p.m.**

"Doctor Hass," Olivia said, leaning forward, cognizant of the fact that the top two buttons of her blouse were undone and she was treating the two men across the table from her to a glimpse of cleavage. Given her druthers, she would have preferred to stay prim and aloof to Hollingbrook – but she could tell he was a non-player, and it didn't really matter how he saw her. Hass, on the other hand, was a world-class chemist and Massive Dynamic's chief scientist in the region. He had a clear understanding of, and eagerness to use, the mining methods Parmas had been working on for Massive Dynamic. What was more, he'd been with Massive Dynamic since its inception and had worked closely with William Bell in the mid-nineties, the period of time just after Walter was committed, while the leading scientists had their fingers in everything. "I am absolutely fascinated by Massive Dynamic's history. To think that you were there on the night that William Bell conceived the iconic name . . ."

"Well, young lady," Dr. Hass chuckled gregariously. "To say he conceived it is to be over generous to my dear friend. It was a Christmas party, hosted by Nina Sharp and her then-beaux, whose name I've entirely forgotten. Walter Bishop, Bell's former collaborator, had had a mental break –effectively ending the partnership, and Bell was disinclined to continue working through Harvard for the government without him. Nina was the one with the idea of starting a company. She was getting her Ph.D. in Bio Sciences at the time, in fact, I think she was one of Bell's graduate students at Harvard, but you have to remember, she'd come from business, and had an MBA. She got so excited about the idea and started talking business models and organizational structures. It was her boyfriend, John, who asked what the company would be called. This go a discussion about how the company should be perceived. Nina, the consummate manipulator, was already insinuating herself in as Bell's irreplaceable business advisor, insisted that the name be aspirational – a name that sounded like the company was already a success. We were all throwing out words and phrases – it was all tied up in what was science, what was business, what was success. And then the boyfriend started playing with them, making them absurd, or so he thought. I'm fairly sure he was doing it to try and upstage Bell, who had all of Nina's attention, but it backfired splendidly. He came up with Massive Dynamic, you see, because he thought massive things could never be dynamic. We all of course, knew better – but the perceived paradox hiding a scientific truth intrigued Bell. I can't say he decided on that name on the spot, but it was obvious that he liked it."

"So Massive Dynamic was actually named by Nina Sharp's ex-boyfriend?" Olivia asked, genuinely intrigued.

"That relationship ended the next day, as I recall," Dr. Hass said with a chuckle. "No one could ever compete with Bell, on any field."

"To be part of the founding group of one of the most, if not the most, important organizations of our age . . ." Olivia said with feigned adoration. "It's amazing just to be talking to you."

"My dear," Dr. Hass chuckled. His cheeks were flushed, but more from the brandy he'd been sipping for the past two hours than from modesty. "True, I was in their circle, but I cannot, in all honestly, call myself part of the founding group. I was very happy with my position at Rutgers, and with Bell in the privet sector, quite a few government research grants came my way. It wasn't until nearly ten years later that I joined Massive Dynamic."

"Why, in the end, did you decide to join Massive Dynamic?"

Hass looked her in the eyes and leaned forward, as if he was going to tell her a secret, "Students are a nuisance, Miss Dunham. The older you are, the more interesting your research becomes, the more obvious it is that students just drain time and energy. Bell promised me an open lab and unhindered research, with no lectures, grading, or office hours to slow me down."

"But, how did you end up here?" Olivia asked, bewildered. "This isn't a job I'd expect William Bell to give to his old friend."

"William Bell does not have the power people think he has," Dr. Hass grumbled. "Nina Sharp runs just about everything now as she sees fit. She claims Bell had qualms with some of my research, and wanted me to refocus on futuristic alloys. But Bell wasn't a man to stop science – Nina was just looking after her precious bottom line."

"What kind of research were you doing?"

"It's neither here nor there," Hass sighed. "What is important is the work we are doing now; unlocking the earth's secretes. Proving our mastery, as it were, over mother nature."

"Whoa," Oliva commented with a nervous chuckle. "That sounds pretty aggressive."

"I've been told I'm an aggressive person," Dr. Hass replied smoothly. "Chemistry, really, is an aggressive field. It's about creating and destroying. Biology, physics, geology, astronomy, they're all about observing what is, documenting and calculating what is. Chemistry goes beyond what is and into what things can be. We have added 24 fully synthetic elements to the periodic table. Forgive me if I indulge in a little hyperbole, Miss Dunham, but Chemists are gods – we make something out of nothing."

"Turn dross into gold?" Olivia prompted.

"Child's play. Nuclear transmutation has been used to turn lead into gold, but I find it striking that it's much, much easier to turn gold into lead."

"But that's what you're doing here, isn't it?" Olivia pressed. "By pulling the alloy . . ."

"Aymahasslium," Dr. Hass supplied.

"It's the gold you're pulling from the doss of the dirt."

"If it were that simple, I assure you, I would not deign to be involved," Dr. Hass said.

"Nothing is simple in Peru," Hollingbrook interjected. "Just getting the good doctor here to have dinner with us took coordinating two river boats, and hiring a driver to go fetch him. If you enjoy wading through endless paperwork . . ."

"And who doesn't," Olivia said.

" . . . you should see the forms I have to submit to the Peruvian government to get permission to mine where the lad owners, the Aymara, have already given us permission to mine. It's not just environmental protection, it's sociological effects, and fair remuneration, and, on top of that, cultural and environmental preservation. The laws wouldn't be so onerous in the states, where at least things are straightforward."

"And in English," Olivia added icily.

"Don't underestimate the difficulty of Spanish negotiations," Holligbrook said. "On Friday I have to meet with the regional governors office to show them our progress so far – you should come. It'd be an education."

"We'll see," Olivia replied.

"Surely you're not hoping to have your audit done by then," Hass asked.

"I don't have a set return date," Olivia said. "This investigation will take as long as it takes."

"But, a bright young lady like you, with your connections, I thought you'd want to attend the Massive Dynamic investors forum," Hass said.

"A bright young lady like me knows that the best way to move ahead is to do her job," Olivia replied smoothly, hoping to drop the subject. She had no idea when, or even what, the investors forum was – and lack of such knowledge would clearly blow her cover.

Hollingbrook sighed and shook his head, "You bought that line, did you? The best way to get ahead is to know the right people. And, sorry to say, you won't meet them here."

"You're not the right people?" Olivia asked gamely.

"I'm afraid Roger is right," Dr. Hass said. "Knowing us will not help your career in the least."

"Regardless," Olivia said. "I enjoy your stories about the beginnings of Massive Dynamic."

Dr. Hass smiled warmly. "You are a sweet girl. And I am glad I know you."

**To be continued . . .**


	8. There's Always a Creepy Part

**Thursday 9:30 a.m.**

Peter glanced down at the list of addresses Charlie had given him to confirm he was in the right place. The other locations made some sense – a bank, a house, a bar, and even the travel agency. They were all clean and modern and they all connected directly with his family. But a run down hut on the bad side of town, with a hand painted sign on the outside advertising Amazonian Tribal medicines-it didn't seem to fit.

Peter walked in the store smiling banally. He planned to use the lie he'd used before, that he knew Parmas from New York and Juan had recommended he stop by. This would, naturally, lead to a conversation about whether or not Parmas did regular business with the shop. If the native Peruvian had been ordering herbal remedies for some common ailment, then that would be that. If the shopkeeper denied knowing Parmas, Peter would know what he already suspected, that this place was not what it seemed.

The inside was dark and musty, which was to be expected, considering the outside. The florescent lights flickered and cracked. The floor-to-ceiling shelves that lined the walls were covered with glass jars holding dried leaves that, at one time, had probably been green, but now were shades of brown and gray. Atop the jars a thick layer of undisturbed dust confirmed what Peter all-but-knew; this place was a front for something.

"Hello!" he called, approaching the wood slatted French doors that led to the little store's back room. "Anyone here?"

"Be with you in a minute!" a voice called back. The voice was hauntingly familiar. The voice froze Peter's blood.

Peter took an unsteady step backwards and fought the urge to run out of the store. He couldn't place the voice; he was fairly sure he'd never heard it before. Still, something about it filled him with a sense of dread, and powerlessness. It took considerable self-control to root himself to the spot and ignore both the fight and the flight impulses that threatened to overwhelm him.

Peter expected to recognize the man with the voice as soon as he appeared. In fact, Peter half anticipated having flashbacks to whatever traumatic events he'd forgotten. But, beyond the universal dark skin, eye, and bowl-cut black hair of an Amazonian native, which Peter had anticipated given the shop's alleged merchandise, the man did not look familiar. Peter could not place the broad forehead, thin lips, and narrow chin of the younger man. Still, his stomach churned with anxiety and his mouth was bone dry as he looked into the surprised face of the man before him.

"Mister . . . ah . . Mister Rook," the young man said in heavily accented English, "what are you doing here?"

"I, ah," Peter stammered forcing his brain to get past the paralyzing fear. "I'm sorry, but do we know each other?"

"Do we," the man said hesitantly, then smiling broadly he said. "I know you, but you must not know me. I am of the Aymara tribe. In point of fact, my uncle is the chief elder. I was at the feast celebrating the successful negotiations with Massive Dynamic just last week, as were you. We were introduced, but I do not think you remember me."

"I'm sorry," Peter said, managing to smile weakly. "But there were so many people . . ."

"It is natural," the man said. "My name is Tamba."

"It's good to meet you again" Peter said, holding out both his hands, palm up, in what Hollingbrook said was the Aymarain equivalent of a handshake.

Tamba smiled broadly at the gesture and returned it. "Now, Mr. Rook, how can I help you?"

Though he'd mastered his fear, Peter hadn't been quite able to regain his bearings. When he spoke, it sounded stilted and untrue in his own ears. "A friend of mine, someone I know from Massive Dynamic, he said I should come here. His name is Juan Parmas."

Hearing Parmas's name clearly startled Tamba, and Peter knew he was on to something. But his initial awkwardness and lingering fear made it hard for him to proceed as smoothly as he would have liked. Peter could not shake the sense that the younger man could see right through him.

"You know, I should have written it down," Peter continued with what he hoped was casual embarrassment. "He told me the name in Spanish – he wasn't sure of the English equivalent. And my Spanish isn't what it should be."

"Perhaps, if you could tell me what it is for?" Tamba asked.

"He said he gets it all the time," Peter said. "He said you'd know what I was talking about."

Tamba looked at Peter with his sharp eyes so dark they looked black. Peter could feel his hear start to race and his palms start to sweat. Still, he met the younger man's gaze.

"I think I know what you need," Tamba said with a smile. "Coca extract – better than those disgusting, chemical energy drinks. One drop in a cup of water and you'll be going all day."

"Coca extract?" Peter asked. "Really?"

"Your friend Juan orders it from me regularly. I mix it with Vanilla and label it Vanilla extract. Customs is none the wiser."

"Yeah, OK," Peter said, feeling that he had no choice but to accept this mildly illegal activity as an explanation for Parmas's calls, and the store's bizarre appearance. However, Peter knew more must be going on. Smuggling coca extract for personal use didn't explain his fear, nor did it lessen the unnerving coincidence that this man was a connection between the Aymara tribe and Juan Parmas's life in New York. "How much is it going to set me back?"

"Sixty nuevos soles for a bottle – four ounces."

"Sounds like a bargain," Peter said, pulling out his wallet. "I'll take one bottle. If I like it, I'll come back for more."

"Our phone number is on the bottle," Tamba said, reaching under the front counter and pulling a small dark brown glass bottle with a cheap home-printed label stuck on the side. "We often send special orders to the United States. It is not a problem."

"I'll keep that in mind," Peter said, handing Tamba a small wad of bills roughly equal to twenty dollars. The young man quickly counted the money and pocketed it, not bothering with the antique cash register on the far side of the counter.

"It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Rook," Tamba said.

"Yes, thank you," Peter replied, pocketing the jar and turning towards the door. "You'll probably be hearing from me again soon."

"I look forward to it," Tamba called, before the old, rusty screen door closed between them.

After leaving, Peter walked casually down the block and around the corner without looking back. Insomuch as was possible, he didn't want Tamba to think he suspected anything – though, considering the circumstances, he was sure Tamba knew far more about the game they'd just played than Peter knew himself. When he was sure he was out of sight of the store, he ducked through the nearest alley and started weaving his way through the back lots and gardens of the surrounding neighborhood until he was behind the small shop. Careful to stay in the lee of the building so that he could not be seen through the open windows, Peter crept closer. He assumed that Tamba would contact whomever he was working with right away to tell them about Peter's visit. He was hoping he'd be able to overhear part of the conversation. If Tamba left the shop to talk to his contact in person, Peter would try to follow him. Short of that, he could search the shop and, with luck, uncover something that would make rhyme and reason out of the apparently disparate events.

As Peter crept along the ground towards the open windows, he could hear a one sided conversation carried out in English. Crouching under with window, Peter tried hard to calm his breathing and his racing heart as he strained to hear every word.

" . . . Of course I am certain. I am not an idiot. I think Juan let more slip than we realized . . . No, he was looking for information. I didn't give him any, but he's not dumb. I could see he recognized me. . . . I'm telling you, he recognized me. I saw it in his eyes. . . . Well, maybe your wrong. In any case, it hardly matters. With Juan dead and Bishop here, there is no one in New York to activate it. . . . Really? That seems risky. . . . And if they both are there . . . Doesn't that make it more likely they will be caught? . . . I see. Well, I suppose you'll need me. . . . Yes, midday. . . . Yes, of course, two o'clock – if that suits your western need for expediency. . . . I will meet you there."

The conversation ended, and Peter could here Tamba moving around in the back rooms. Every now and then he would mutter something to himself, but his mutterings were not in English, and they didn't even sound like Spanish. They were probably the Aymaran language, which Peter could not hope to understand. Eventually, he closed the windows, thankfully without looking outside, and Peter couldn't hear anything. A few moments later, while Peter was still trying to determine his next move, he heard the front door of the shop close . Sneaking around the side of the building, he saw Tamba walking away from the shop and heading quickly to an old Jeep parked a little ways down the street. Peter stepped back into the shadow of the building as Tamba drove by, and quickly memorized the old car's license plate number – though he wasn't sure how, or if, that information would ever be useful.

Without a car or clear knowledge of the neighborhood, Peter knew he had no chance of following the mysterious native. So, pulling his lock picking kit out of his pocket, he started to work. The simple deadbolt gave way with little effort, and soon Peter was inside the shop again, this time alone. However, his search of the premises was disappointing. The front room didn't appear to have anything more interesting than two large boxes full of 4 oz. essence of Coca bottles. The cash register appeared to be there for show. It was empty.

The back room was a little more interesting. Peter found large buckets full of strong alcohol and diced green leaves. He knew eventually that mixture would be cut with the bottles of cheap Vanilla extract on the table and poured into the tiny bottles stored in boxes of a hundred under the workbench. The bottles would then be labeled with the labels sitting in sheets on the old laser printer in the corner. There was no computer in the room, but there was a wireless router next to the printer. Peter assumed that Tamba had a laptop.

It was unquestionably an unlicensed, probably illegal, manufacturer of herbal remedies that bordered on street drugs. It had to be more, Peter thought – there had to be a connection between this store and Massive Dynamic. There certainly was a connection between the Native son Tamba and the Expat, Parmas. There had to be an explanation for his memory loss, his attack on Walter, and his inexplicable terror. But, whatever those answers might be, they were not to be found inside the small, dirty store.

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Thursday 6:20 p.m.**

"There you are," Olivia said sharply as she came upon Roger Hollingbrook in his office. The lights were dim, a decanter of gin was sitting on his desk and he was sipping from a tumbler as he examined something on the screen of his tablet computer. "I've been looking for you all afternoon. Your secretary had no idea where you were."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Dunham," Hollingbrook said. His voice sounded awful, thin and uncertain. When he looked up at her, there were dark bags under his eyes and his skin was ashen. "I got a migraine this afternoon. It knocked me on my ass for a couple of hours. I'm just trying to catch up, but I can still feel it. So, forgive me if I'm testy."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Olivia said, her tone softened. It was obvious at a glance that he was in genuine pain, and his inclination to always have gin at hand made a little more sense. "My questions could wait until tomorrow if . . ."

"No, no, no," Hollingbrook said. "Ask your questions."

"I was wondering what you could tell me about the facility on San Sabot Street."

"What facility?"

"It's a warehouse," Olivia said.

"On San Sabot Street?" Hollingbrook grunted. "I don't even know where that is."

"You purchased it six years ago, though I cannot find the business case that justified it."

"Six years," Hollingbrook grumbled. "That's about the time I was transferred here . . . "

"So the purchase would have been one of your first acts as regional manager."

"Dunham, I'm sorry, I can't remember. Maybe tomorrow, when my head feels a little less like someone's taken a bat to it . . ."

"Sure," Olivia clipped. She was annoyed, but Hollingbrook's request was reasonable. And the truth was, he didn't look up to remembering what he'd had for lunch, not to mention a business purchase six years back. "In that case, I'll just put all this on hold until tomorrow."

"Yeah, great," Hollingbrook grunted. "I wanted to take you out again tonight but . . ."

"Don't worry," Olivia said quickly. "I wanted to get into the city on my own anyways. I'd like to pick up a souvenir to take back to my niece."

"Ok, yeah," Hollingbrook said. "Then I'll see you in the morning."

"I hope you feel better."

"I will," he said with some certainty. "A good night's sleep and I'll be myself again. I hope you enjoy the nightlife, Ms. Dunham."

"Thank you," Olivia said as walked out of the office, feeling relived that she had been spared another night with Hollingbrook and guilty that her relief was the result of his pain. "Good night."

Olivia had hoped to get out of Massive Dynamics office closer to six, but she waited around hoping to find Hollingbrook. Had she left on time, she would have been able to go back to the hotel, drop off her computer, and change into more comfortable clothes before heading to the heart of Iquitos's tourist district. As it was, she now had scarcely over half an hour to get a cab, drive across the city, and find the bar where Peter would be waiting for her. However, when she walked out of the cool air conditioned offices and into the heat and humidity of a South American night, she realized Peter could wait at least long enough for her to ditch the suit jacket.

She got to the bar ten minutes late but a quick scan of the room proved he was not there. She did notice, however, that several of the men who were there immediately noticed her. Probably, she thought uncomfortably, because she was the only natural blond in the room.

She walked up to the bar and slid onto an empty stool, with two empty stools beside it. She didn't have to motion to catch the bartender's attention; he was with her almost as soon as she sat down.

"What can I get you tonight, lovely lady?" he asked.

"Just a beer," Olivia said.

"What kind?" the man asked.

"Something light. And cold."

"We have a nice Pale Ale from the TouchStone brewery in Lima. We also Import Miller from America. You're American, aren't you?"

"I'll have the one from Lima," Olivia said. "And, perhaps you noticed. Was there another American in here earlier. A white man, with short brown hair, mid thirties. I was supposed to meet him at 7:00."

"I haven't seen any other Americans tonight," the bartender said as he poured Olivia's beer from the tap. "But I'm sure he'll see you if he comes in. That'll be ten nuevos soles."

"Thank you," Olivia said, putting her money on the table. He accepted it was a smile, but quickly moved on to the next customer.

Olivia sipped the beer, crunched on a handful of complementary peanuts on the bar, and waited. She kept her eyes open, glancing around the bar, hoping to see Peter walk through the door. She wasn't really concerned that he was 15 minutes late; she had, after all, been late herself. She was, however, bothered by the number of eyes she could feel resting on her. The women, she thought, probably were looking at her clothes. Her standard black pants and chunky boots set her miles apart from the rest of the women in seemingly ubiquitous miniskirts and stiletto heels. The loose cream-colored shell she'd put on in an effort to dress down the suit pants seemed ridiculously prudish compared to the deep V-necks and bright colors of their t-shirts. Even though her clothing set her apart and made her conspicuous, she didn't regret her choices. The men in the bar were also looking at her. She knew her slight figure, blond hair, and pail skin made her exotic in this part of the world and she believed the only thing holding most of the men back from aggressive flirtation was the assumption that a women dressed like that must be a lesbian.

What these people thought about her didn't matter, and she ignored them. But being so conspicuous, being markedly different form everyone else in the room, was getting under her skin.

"When she was about half way through with her beer, someone slipped onto the stool next to her. She could tell by the footfall as he approached that it wasn't Peter, so she didn't look up. That didn't discourage him in the least.

"Hello," he said in heavily accented English. "You're American?"

Taking a deep breath to brace herself for what she knew would be an awkward and annoying conversation, Olivia turned to him and showed a regretful smile. "Hi, yeah . . . look I'm waiting for –"

"I'm studying English at school," the man said with what, Olivia assumed, was his most charming smile. "I thought maybe you would help me practice."

"I'm waiting for someone," Olivia responded, dropping the smile.

"But they're not here now," the man said, holding out his hand. "My name is Pedro."

"Hi Pedro," Olivia offered neither her hand nor her name.

"Do you know, I have never seen anyone with eyes like yours," Pedro said, apparently deciding her name wasn't of much import. "They remind me of a lush garden."

Olivia turned her head forward, attempting to look away, but he quickly made eye contact with her again in the mirror behind the bar. "I see you like to look at your eyes as well. If I were as pretty as you, I'd always want to look in the mirror."

"Pedro, please," Olivia said, turning back to him. "I'm flattered, really, but like I said, I'm waiting . . ."

"I heard what you told the bar tender. That man is late. Maybe he stood you up."

"You don't understand . . ."

"Why not come sit with us while you wait?" Pedro asked. "It is a crime for a beautiful women to sit alone."

"I'm happy alone," Olivia told him dryly.

"My dear," Pedro said, grabbing her hand and kissing it before she could snatch it back. "That cannot possibly be true."

"Let go of me," Olivia said with a deadly serious tone in her voice. "Or I will break your wrist." She didn't want to attract attention, and she didn't want to hurt the young man who was, in his own way, paying her a complement. But, she really hated the way his attention made her feel – so obvious, so exposed.

Pedro looked at her curiously for a moment. He was clearly spooked by her tone, but he didn't let go. In fact, a smile spread across his thin lips. "Hard to get?"

"Hey!" a familiar and welcome voice called from the end of the bar. Olivia looked up and saw Peter storming towards them looking every bit the angry boyfriend. Had Pedro kept his eyes on her instead of turning to look at the loud American, he would have seen amusement in the garden of her eyes.

"What are you doing with her?" Peter demanded of Pedro once they were closer.

"Just keeping the lady company while she waited," Pedro said politely. He'd dropped Olivia's hand and slipped off the stool. "It was a pleasure to meet you," he told Olivia with a little bow before turning tail and scurrying back to his friends, who were all laughing at the confrontation.

Once Pedro was gone, Olivia allowed herself to laugh too, "I think the better question is, what are you doing?"

"Keeping you out of trouble," Peter said. His brooding expression was replaced by a congenial smile and, suddenly, Olivia felt comfortable. "You were going to break his wrist, weren't you?"

"He shouldn't have grabbed my hand," Olivia said.

"I'll be sure to avoid that mistake," Peter laughed, as the bartender caught his eye. "How's the beer?"

"Not bad."

"Same as her, please," Peter told the bartender as he slid onto the stool next to her. A moment later, he had his own pint.

"So," she prompted as he took his first sip, "Why are you late?"

"The bus broke down half way here," Peter said. "We had to walk two miles to the nearest town, and wait three hours while they got another bus. "

"Tough day," Olivia commented.

"And I haven't even told you the creepy part."

"There's always a creepy part."

"Only since I met you," Peter countered good-naturedly.

Olivia returned his fleeting smile, but her expression became concerned as he started to tell his story.

"The first four places I checked out for Charlie all seem to be on the up-and-up. The bank where he sends remittances –he makes a lot of investments with them too, the house he bought his mother, the bar his cousin owns, and a travel agency he was using to plan a trip to the Mediterranean paradise of Montenegro. Fun fact for the day, the U.S. doesn't happen to have an extradition treaty with Montenegro – but that could just be coincidental. Though, it is interesting to note that last week he called and had the agents busy adding another person to the trip – Hannah Loba."

"That jives pretty well with her story of suddenly falling in love," Olivia noted. "Though, I'm still waiting for creepy."

"The last place on Charlie's list was a run-down shack that, at very least, is selling some sort of illegal Cocoa extract. The guy claimed Parmas was a regular customer, and he sold me a bottle of the stuff, which we can send to Charlie and have analyzed – but that's got to be a front."

"The illegal sale of a narcotic is a front?" Olivia asked skeptically. "What for?"

"Brainwashing Americans into assassins."

"Peter . . ."

"Listen, Olivia, the second I heard the guys voice in that store my blood froze. I know scary people, I've been in scary situations, but nothing has ever scared me like that man's voice did. It was like my subconscious knew something awful was going to happen."

"Did anything awful happen?"

"No," Peter said. "It was your standard shady drug deal, cash for product, no questions asked. I did get the guy's name, though: Tamba, and he's from the Aymara tribe."

"Aymara? As in the tribe you negotiated with for Massive Dynamic?"

Peter nodded, "When I walked in, he called me Rook. He said he'd been there at the negotiation. I've thought over it, and I don't remember him – but lots of people were at the negotiation, I couldn't swear he wasn't a face in the crowed. But all of that is inconsequential, because after I bought the jar of Cocoa extract, I snuck around the block to the back of the shop to snoop around."

"What'd you find?"

"I overheard a phone conversation. He was talking to someone in English about me, how I should be in New York. He mentioned a Juan too. . . ."

"Parmas," Olivia supplied.

" . . . He said 'With Juan dead and Bishop here, there is no one in New York to activate it' – I think they wanted me to help Parmas set off some kind of bomb. Maybe I was . . . "

"Did he really call you Bishop?" Olivia interjected, hoping that Peter had misspoken.

"Yeah," Peter said soberly. "He knew who I really am, and he played like he didn't. He thought I recognized him."

"But you didn't," Olivia pointed out.

"He must have seen the fear on my face," Peter said, "assumed if I knew enough to be afraid of him, I must know who he is."

"OK," Olivia said. "So, let's step back and think about this guy, Tamba. He's from a small Amazonian tribe – but he's not one of the leaders. He knew Juan Parmas, and he knew you as Peader Rook, so he must be connected with Massive Dynamic. He was expecting you and Parmas to activate something in New York – maybe even in Massive Dynamic's headquarters."

"Presumably another one of Parmas's freezing devices," Peter said.

"Which would kill people," Olivia said, suddenly seeing how parts of the puzzle fit together. "Parmas plants a bomb, a test bomb, maybe to gage how lethal his device is. But then, like Hannah Loba said, he has a change of heart."

"Just, all of a sudden?" Peter asks. "Like the Grinch who stole Christmas?"

"Why not?" Olivia asked. "He'd been talking about ethics and the sanctity of human life with Loba for months. I think, when it came to it, to pushing the button, Parmas didn't have it in him."

"Ok."

"For some reason, he can't go back and remove the device so he call's in the tip and makes sure that no one is harmed. He calls his co-conspirators in Peru, this guy Tamba, probably others as well, and tells them he wants out. They don't change their plans because they have someone ready to replace him."

"Me," Peter said.

"They know you're a friend of Nina Sharps. They probably think you have accesses to Massive Dynamic's headquarters."

"But, the timing doesn't quite work. My memories stops Friday night. The ferry sunk Sunday morning."

"Maybe they knew Parmas better than he knew himself," Olivia posited. "Maybe they felt the need to hedge their bets. Or maybe it's the kind of job that's easily done by two, but can be done by one, or maybe . . ."

" . . . maybe the plan called for a suicide bomber, and Parmas wouldn't go that far." Peter said. "Maybe they were looking for someone expendable."

"Maybe," Olivia agreed. "Parmas knows you're the back-up so he gets your number, somehow, and urges you to get prohibitively far away from New York."

"Which I do," Peter said. "And now Tamba and his co-conspirators have to come up with another plan."

"An unsettling thought," Olivia said.

"But this still doesn't explain what I did to Walter," Peter pointed out.

"Actually, it does," Olivia said. "Astrid sent me an e-mail and it seems that Walter has a theory. He and Bell developed a way to program people to do certain, specific tasks. "

"Like activating a bomb?"

"Exactly," Olivia said. "The procedure worked, but the subjects couldn't recall the instructions with their conscience mind, the activity had to be triggered somehow. Also, the process was extremely painful and traumatic."

"Of course it was."

"Walter thinks that by recreating several of the accidents of the procedure, the lab, the chair with arm-straps, the needles in your brain – and then surprising your conscience mind with drugs – you subconscious took over and you entered a fuge state . . ."

"Where my brain thought I was back here, being programed to do something I didn't want to do."

"So when you attacked him, it's because you thought you were attacking Tamba, or one of his conspirators."

" . . . and the reason I can't remember attacking Walter is because my brain attached those memories to the original programing, which I can't access."

"That's Walter's theory."

"It works," Peter said. "But who down here would be able to perform that kind of procedure? Or, more to the point, why?"

"I think I know the answer to the first question at least," Olivia said. "When you were down here before, did you meet Dr. Anderson Hass?"

"No," Peter said. "But that name sounds familiar."

"You may remember him from your childhood. He moved in the same scientific and social circles as your father, Nina Sharp, and William Bell."

"Anderson Hass," Peter said, hoping that saying the name would trigger a memory. "Nothing's coming to mind. But then, I have an unusually poor memory of my childhood – and I really hated socializing with my father's friends."

"He said that he received some of the government research grants that Bell abandoned when he founded Massive Dynamic. What if one of those grants was the brain-programing research? He seemed to think that Nina Sharp sent him down here to keep him from ethically questionable research . . ."

"Like mind control," Peter supplied. "So, he has opportunity, means, and motive – what do we do now?"

"If we were in the States I'd take him in for questioning," Olivia said. "But I'm not sure there is anything we can do at the moment. I'm not here in an official capacity."

"But, how hard is it to change that?" Peter asked. "Now that we have a suspect, can't Broyles make a few calls . . .?"

"More than a few," Olivia said. "But, yeah, as we have a case of one American citizen perpetrating a crime against another American citizen and possibly plotting a terrorist attack on American soil. An extradition would be ideal."

"For questioning?"

"Well, no," Olivia admitted. "We'd have to have charges . . ."

"And what about Tamba, his conspirator?"

"If the stuff in your bottle does turn out to be some sort of Coca derivative, and he dose actually send it to the States, then we can pick him up on drug trafficking. That much is easy."

"Right, drug trafficking, easy-peasy," Peter said with a dry laugh.

"Compared to mind control, yeah," Olivia said. "I'm not even sure what we'd charge Hass with – coercion, I guess."

"And assault, lest you forget my broken rib."

"Coercion, assault, he's looking at upwards of three years . . ." she commented wryly.

"You know, Olivia," Peter said with a more serious tone. "As much as I'd like to up the counts of his crime and send him away for a nickel, I've been thinking that, given the circumstances, we should stick together."

"You think he'd try to brainwash me?" Olivia asked.

"He's looking to send someone back to New York, presumably to kill Nina Sharp with a freezing bomb – who better for the job than one of her favorite protégés?"

"They're expecting me at the office tomorrow morning, and there's a trip planned to meet with a small group of Aymaryan elders tomorrow afternoon – people are going to be suspicious if I suddenly have a shadow."

"Nina could make it work."

"Yeah, but could she make it plausible?" Olivia counted. "Until we have authorization from Charlie and the Peruvian Government, we can't make an arrest. If Hass and Tamba get suspicious, they could disappear."

"And if they get their hands on you, you could become a terrorist," Peter said. "Maybe even a suicide bomber."

"If I get brainwashed, Walter will just have to deprogram me."

"He can do that?"

"He thinks so."

"More fun time in the lab," Peter grumbled.

Olivia smiled warmly. "I can take care of myself."

"I would have said the same about myself last week at this time," Peter pointed out. "But we can discuss that later. I don't know about you, but I'd like something a little more substantial than beer."

"Tequila?"

"Dinner, actually, was what I was thinking. I haven't had anything since Lima."

"You treated me to dinner at a Peruvian restaurant last week, I guess the least I could do is return the favor. But, do you think you can wait until after we walk through that marketplace outside."

"I suppose I can. Why?"

"I'd like to find something to bring home to Ella."

Peter smiled and laughed gently, "You are a fantastic aunt."

"Hardly," Olivia said. "But I'll take that as a yes."

"Yeah," Peter said, pushing away from the bar, still smiling. "Lets go find something to make a six-year-old smile."

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Thursday 10:45 p.m.**

"You don't have to walk me to my room," Olivia insisted.

"I know," Peter replied. "But it's on the way to my room."

"You said your room was on the sixth floor."

"And, from the ground floor, the third floor is on the way."

"You know I'm not nearly intoxicated enough to invite you in."

"I'm a little offended to think you think I'd get you drunk so I could seduce you."

"A little offended?"

"I'd like to think I could seduce a women without her being drunk."

"Really?" Olivia asked with a half-challenging laugh.

"Well, not you," Peter admitted. "I don't think anyone could seduce you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're a very cautious person," Peter said. "You don't . . . I mean, I don't think you'd let someone else run away with you. And that's not a bad thing, by the way. I really respect that about you."

"Ok," Olivia said, blushing despite herself as she slid her keycard through the electronic lock to her room. "I think I'll just let that comment go."

She opened the door and stepped in with mindless, automatic steps of someone who expected to find an empty and familiar room. But, as soon as she crossed the threshold into the darkness of the room, a hand reached out from the shadows, grabbed her arm, twisted her around, and put a gag over her mouth before she could scream.

"Olivia!" Peter exclaimed. In his half-intoxicated state, he was too surprised by the suddenness of the attack to do anything smart, like rush to her aid or run and get help.

"Get in here Rook," Hollingbrook's voice ordered from the shadows. "And close the door. I have a gun and enough money to bribe any witnesses to your murder."

Peter's alcohol-impaired brain was still trying to decide just what to do when Tamba stepped out of the doorway. Looking frustrated, he grabbed Peter's arm and yanked him into the dark hotel room, and closed the door behind them.

**To be continued . . .**


	9. Sit and Wait for the Carnage

**Sunday 6:00 a.m.**

The telephone rang with what, Peter thought, was an inexcusably loud and jarring buzz. Worse still, it kept riming. The person on the other line was, apparently not routed to voice mail, nor were they content to give up. With a groan, he pushed himself onto his elbows and reached for the phone, intending to bat the receiver off its cradle, end the noise, and then fall back asleep. But, as he was reaching, he realized something large, solid, and lumpy was on the bed between him and the phone.

"Get off!" Olivia said, half groaning, half grunting, as the lumpy obstacle pushed Peter off of it and away from the phone.

Semi-conscious and unbalanced, Peter fell backwards and slipped off the bed. He hit the ground with an unusually heavy thud. The pain in his head seemed to expand exponentially, like a super nova, even as he became aware of a new, sharper, pain in his back. He groaned and sat up as one fact became crystal clear in his mind – a fact he could neither explain nor escape. He'd been in bed with Olivia.

"Peter?" Olivia asked as her head appeared over the edge of the bed. She looked awful, her hair tussled, her skin grayish, bags under her eyes, and a slightly pained expression on her face.

"Mornin' sunshine," Peter commented as he reached behind his back and dislodged the object that was stabbing him, discovering it was an empty wine bottle. "Some night, eh?"

A half-mocking smile broke through her sever countenance. "I take it you don't remember what happened either?"

"I'm guessing wine was involved," Peter said, holding up the bottle. "Much, much too much wine."

"On that we agree," Olivia said, rolling back onto the bed so she was sitting with her head against the headboard and her eyes closed. "I can't remember the last time I had a hangover like this."

"Yeah," Peter agreed, using the bed to pull himself to his feet and survey the room. At a glance he saw six empty bottles of wine and a half-full bottle of vodka. For a moment he wondered how they got so much alcohol, and why they had consumed it so immoderately. He glanced down at Olivia, who was rubbing her eyes, apparently trying to bring the room into focus. Given the situation, how and why were not nearly as pressing questions as what. "Last night, you don't think we . . ."

"No," she said quickly, sparing them both the embarrassment of having the words spoken.

"You sound pretty sure," Peter said, relieved by her answered, but surprised by her certainty given the circumstances.

"To drink as much as, apparently, we drank, and then have sex, and then get fully dressed again, including you buckling your belt and me buttoning my shirt . . . I don't see that happening."

Peter's hands drifted to his waist. His belt was indeed buckled. "Ok," he said with a relieved sigh. For a fleeting moment, he was impressed with her deductive capabilities despite her hangover – but his own hangover was distractingly painful and he didn't spend much time wondering at her skills. "Then, I guess the only thing to do is get black coffee—and breakfast. Preferably something with lots of bacon."

"Sounds fantastic," Olivia said as she pushed herself off the bed. "Enjoy yourself."

"You don't want breakfast?" Peter asked, surprised.

"Oh, I do," Olivia replied. "But I have to get ready for work. I'm supposed to get a three hour audit assessment with Hollingbrook before we leave."

"Sounds like just the thing for a headache," Peter commented. "You didn't happen to see my wallet while you were deducing we didn't sleep together."

"No," Olivia said. "I didn't see any glasses either . . ."

"Must have been a fun party," Peter said with a chuckle as he walked over to the dresser against the far wall, where a small pile of miscellaneous stuff was set, and looked through it for his missing wallet. "I wish I could remember it."

"I wish we had another day," Olivia said as she picked through her suitcase. "It's feeling so rushed here at the end."

"I assumed that's what we were celebrating last night," Peter countered. "Being able to leave."

"It just feels so fast," Olivia continued. "I never even got a chance to go buy Ella a souvenir."

"Didn't you?" Peter asked, opening a brown paper bag. "Then who is this monkey for?"

Olivia walked over and looked at what Peter was holding. It was a small stuffed monkey made with real fur, probably guanine pig. It was just the kind of thing Olivia thought Ella would like. "Anything else in the bag?" she asked.

Peter reached in and pulled out a cuff bracelet with integrate beading in vibrant shades of pink and green. "It's Rachel's style," Peter noted.

"I don't remember buying those," Olivia said. "But it looks like your wallet fell of the dresser into the trash basket."

"Oh, thanks," Peter said as he put down the gifts and retrieved his wallet. "I might never have found it. You're pretty observant, you know. Ever think about being a detective?"

"It's much too early for jokes," Olivia said, though she sounded amused. "Anything else you're missing?"

"If there is, I'll just have to hope you find it," Peter replied. "Will you at least meet me for coffee in the lobby before you head off for your . . . what was it . . . audit assessment."

"If you hurry," Olivia said. "If I were you, I'd go up to my room and go back to bed."

"I wish we didn't have to split up today," Peter confessed. "This place . . . the city . . . it doesn't feel safe."

"Well, we're leaving it on a 2:30 flight," Olivia assured him. "Unless we miss it because I missed my meeting because you didn't get out of my room and let me get ready."

"Of course," Peter said, blushing a little as he walked to the door. "I'll see you downstairs in, what? Twenty minutes?"

"Yeah," Olivia said briskly right before she closed the door to her room. Peter felt reassured as he heard the clank of the deadbolt locking him out. For the next twenty minutes, at least, he could assure himself that she was safe.

~B~R~E~A~K~

Peter's fears for Olivia during their last day in Iquitos were unfounded. Hollingbrook dropped her off at the airport safe, sound, and early. They met in the boarding lounge as they waited for their plain, and compared notes of their investigation on the flight from Iquitos to Lima. The notes were, taken as a whole, discouraging. Olivia had found nothing suspicious or unusual in her review of Massive Dynamic's dealings with the Aymara tribe. Peter had found no connection between Juan Parmas and anything nefarious.

"There's something to be said for knowing where not to look," Olivia offered, trying to find a bright side.

"Yeah, but not much to be said for it," Peter grumbled.

The flight from Lima to New York was much more pleasant. They were both relived to be heading home. And the inflight movie, an action adventure thriller, offered ample opportunity to mock Hollywood's incomplete knowledge of human anatomy, psychology, basic physics, and law enforcement procedures. It felt very good to laugh at the absurdities and, for a short while, not worry about anything.

When they reached JFK on Monday morning, they intended to catch a cab and go straight to Massive Dynamic to report to Nina Sharp but as they exited the terminal, a welcome party changed their plans.

"This is Déjà vu," Peter said, looking at Charlie as he and two of his underlings, Agents Matt Kris and D'Shawn Robinson, approached them.

"Yeah, only this time no one knew you were coming home."

"Well, clearly you did," Olivia said with a smile.

"Only because Agent Farnsworth never turned off the alerts for Peader Rook's travel plans," Charlie said, clearly annoyed. "No communication for two days. What have you guys been doing?"

"It was kind of crazy down there," Peter said nonchalantly. "Cell phones were iffy – Internet was practically nonexistent."

"We uncovered information that made it imperative to come home right away," Olivia continued smoothly.

"What information is that?" Charlie asked.

"There is going to be an attack on Massive Dynamic," Olivia said. "Peter and I were just going there to warn Nina Sharp."

"You could have called from Lima," Charlie said. "We could have had her in protective custody by now."

"Sorry if you were inconvenienced," Peter said in a tone that made it clear he was baffled by their complaints, "But we were rushing to catch the flight. Besides which, if I know Nina Sharp, she won't take precautionary protection. It's the first day of their annual investors forum. A terrorism scare would shut the whole thing down, could cost the company millions."

"Nina Sharp's not stupid enough to ignore a credible threat and risk hundreds of people's lives just to make a few million dollars," Charlie said.

"She's the COO of one of the world's most powerful companies," Peter retorted. "You don't get that job unless you're willing to take those kinds of risks for a few million dollars."

"Peter and I were heading to Massive Dynamic now," Olivia said. "Given what we know, we thought our best chance of foiling it was finding Parmas's coconspirators as they set up the devices and catching them red handed."

"Wouldn't the best chance of foiling it be upping security so that they don't even have a chance to get in?" Charlie asked.

"And so they go home and plan another attack for a time and place we don't know," Peter replied.

"This might be our only chance to stop them before countless people die," Olivia insisted. "If we lose this, we're just going to have to sit and wait for the carnage."

Charlie took a deep breath and looked from Olivia, to Peter, and back to Olivia. "Ok," he said. "You and I will go to Massive Dynamic and talk with Nina Sharp."

"You mean all of us will," Peter said.

"Bishop, you have to go back to your Dad's lab and be deprogramed," Charlie said. "Agents Kirs and Robinson are here to escort you."

"Really," Peter scoffed. "You felt the need to have two ex-army rangers escort me back to my father's lab."

"After what happened the last time you entered the lab, yeah, we did," Charlie answered honestly.

"But we'll need Peter's expertise to dismantle the freezing bomb," Olivia argued.

Charlie turned to her, baffled, "I think someone at the biggest and best technology company in the world will be able to help us figure that out."

"Right," Olivia said shakily, as if the idea had never occurred to her. "Of course."

"But I really ought to be there," Peter continued to protest.

"Bishop, you know I like you, but you're lucky you're not in jail right now," Charlie said. "After being released on an assault charge you immediately fled the country under a false passport. If you do not go to your father's lab, you will go to jail."

"So you're telling me I have no choice," Peter said darkly.

"That's what I'm telling you," Charlie responded.

Peter paused, as if to think about it for a minute. "Then I guess I'd better go with them to see Walter."

'We'll keep you posted if we find anything," Olivia assured him as she and Charlie started toward the nearest exit, where they could catch a cab to Massive Dynamics Headquarters in Manhattan.

"Thanks," Peter replied, turning to Kris and Robinson. "I guess now at least I'll be in Boston in time to see the Patriots game."

"'Always look on the bright side of life,' as they say," Robinson replied with a friendly smile as they headed towards the domestic terminal and a short flight to Boston.

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Monday 10:20 a.m.**

"Yes, of course," Nina Sharp said very seriously. "Whatever you require."

They were standing in her office. She had postponed whatever important business meeting she'd been about to attend as soon as they'd arrived. She'd listened to Olivia's warnings with quiet and controlled concern. A small smile flickered across her face when Olivia acknowledged that the Investors Forum would not be canceled as a matter of course, even on such a credible threat. That acknowledgment, Olivia reasoned, put Nina in the right state of mind to give them unlimited, unquestioned access to everything.

"Well, for the time being, I don't think we'll require much," Olivia said. "I've told Charlie everything I know, and I can share it with your security forces if you want. We have a very specific profile, so anyone meeting that profile should be questioned very informally by the security. If they have red flags, then they should be questions by either Charlie or me."

"I hate to think that one of our upstanding South American investors will be inconvenienced."

"We don't want to waste our time harassing Brazilian business men," Charlie assured her. "The preliminary questions are relatively non-intrusive."

"If any of your investors are questioned, we think they'll just come away thinking your security guards are tactless," Olivia added.

Nina sighed, "Not really the impression we like to put forward – but I suppose some sacrifices must be made for safety."

"We don't think the attack will be carried out until after lunch," Olivia continued.

"During the opening address," Nina noted. "A logical target."

"If you could divide your security guards into four groups and provide a conference room, we'll conduct a twenty-minuet briefing session for each one during the morning sessions."

"I don't know that we have many conference rooms to spare," Nina said. "But I'm sure it can be managed." She pressed the button on her phone, opening a comm line to her personal assistant outside her office. "Ms. Lydel, please get Martin Curtz for me immediately. Also, find an open conference room and reserve it for the rest of the morning. If you have to move some internal meetings, do it."

Turning away from the phone, she looked at Olivia, "Ms. Dunham, I want to thank you for the personal effort you've put into this investigation."

"I put effort into all my investigations," Olivia said.

"That is obvious," Nina said with her customary polite but detached smile. "However, I cannot help but feel that traveling to Peru and investigating these incidents in our own offices was a step beyond mere duty, and I'm inclined to view it as a personal favor."

"It wasn't," Olivia said crisply.

"Nevertheless, you have my gratitude," Nina said. "And that is worth something."

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Monday 1:00 p.m.**

"Not that way," Agent Robinson said, as Peter turned right, towards Walter's lab, at the bottom of the stairs in the Keslig building.

Agent Kris grabbed Peter's bicep to keep Peter from continuing down the very-familiar path. It was a relatively innocuous movement, a simple redirection, but the strength behind the grip indicated that Kris, and undoubtedly Robinson as well, were willing to use force to get Peter where they wanted him to go. Their insistence annoyed him more than anything else. He couldn't stop thinking about New York, and Massive Dynamic, and Olivia doing alone what they should be doing together.

They lead Peter to a small classroom down the hall from the lab. Astrid was in the room, waiting. Next to her was a gurney with an IV set and ready. Peter realized immediately what they'd planed and he was slightly annoyed that they'd deemed the intimidation of the burly agents and the last-minuet redirection necessary. If Astrid had been there and told him, just to be safe, they were going to sedate him before the carted him into the lab and let Walter perform the mind warping procedure he deemed necessary; Peter would have gone along with it.

"Hi Peter," she said with a friendly smile. "Welcome home."

"Government thugs and sedatives aren't exactly the welcome I wanted," Peter replied. Then, turning to Robinson and Kris, he asked, "You guys don't mind being called thugs, do you?"

Robinson smiled dryly, "How about callin' us escorts?"

"Peter, I know this wasn't a warm welcome," Astrid said. "But, given what happened last time, we all thought it would be best if you were unconscious while Walter set up the deprograming procedure."

"I get it, it makes sense," Peter said. "I just wish we could do this after we catch the bad guys."

"Until we know what the bad guys wanted you to do, we can't be sure we caught them," Astrid pointed out.

Peter didn't have a reply for that particular piece of sound logic, so he changed the subject. "So, what's the plan?"

"If you get on the gurney, I'll hook you up to the IV," Astrid said. "Then I'll give you a sedative. It should only knock you out for about fifteen minutes."

"Just enough time for Walter to set up whatever horrible experiment he's planning," Peter said glumly.

"He does seem to think it'll be pretty horrible," Astrid admitted. "But he says it's the only way."

Peter sighed, "There are times I wish I could get a second opinion."

Astrid smiled apologetically. "Mind taking off your jacket?"

Peter did so and then he pulled off the sweater, so he was just wearing a black t-shirt. Wordlessly, he offered Astrid his right arm, and she did not have to ask him why.

"This is mostly saline," she told him, as she injected a clear liquid into his vein. "Walter said the sedative will act quickly, so you should probably lie down."

Peter nodded and did as he was told. Walter hadn't exaggerated the potency of his, undoubtedly, homemade sedative. Peter was starting to feel drowsy even as he sat on the gurney, and as he laid his head on the stiff mattress, his eyelids were irresistibly heavy and Astrid's voice seemed to be coming from miles away. Peter closed his eyes and let the darkness wrap around him.

Then, in was felt like a heartbeat, a bright yellow light shattered his comfortable darkness. Peter closed his eyes even more tightly and tried to turn his head away from the light, but his head wouldn't turn.

"I think he's waking up," Astrid said.

"Wonderful!" Walter replied chirpily. "Peter? Peter, are you awake?"

He thought, _I am now. Turn off the searchlight, will you?_ But all that came out was a groan.

"Now, I realize you are still quite groggy from the sedative I had Asterisk give you, but I should inform you that you are currently being restrained."

"Walter," Peter managed to croak out as he opened his eyes a slit. "Wha . . ."

"I'm afraid the electrical impulses that I will have to send through your brain to reintegrate the implanted thoughts into your consciousness will be quite painful. Unfortunately, if I were to sedate you or give you any significant dosage of pain killer, it would alter your brain patterns significantly and the procedure would be useless. You understand, don't you son?"

"Yes," Peter managed to say, even as his entire body tensed in anticipation of whatever god-awful thing Walter was about to do.

"Good," Walter replied, smiling weakly. "This will not take long, though, I understand, it feels like an eternity."

"Walter!" Astrid snapped. "That won't help!"

"I just want to prepare him for what he's about to endure," Walter replied with feigned innocence. "I fail to see how lying to him about the pain will help him more than the truth."

"Peter, it really won't last long," Astrid assured him from somewhere out of his line of vision. "The lab notes from the last time Walter did this said that the reintegration procedure only took about ten seconds."

"Did it really?" Walter asked, sounding genuinely interested. "I recall it being much longer . . . but then hearing screams of pain tend to make just about any time period uncomfortably long. "

"Please just start!" Peter said, as forcefully as he could.

"Yes, of course," Walter replied, clapping his hands. "If you will step aside dear, so I can reach the apparatus . . . and if you would keep an eye on his vitals, we can begin."

Peter heard some shuffling as Astrid and Walter positioned themselves. Mentally, he tried to prepare himself as well. He took several deep breaths and did what he could to relax the tense muscles in his shoulders and untie the knot in his stomach. Then, as suddenly as a car crash or a gunshot, his head exploded in pain.

The bright yellow light that had woken him up was nothing compared to the supernova of painfully white light that seemed to consume him. Thought was impossible, movement was impossible, breathing was impossible, while the pain persisted.

Then the sharpness of it faded, and in its place a whole new kind of pain emerged, tied to memories filled with fear. He was in Peru, in the car with Hollingbrook. He was almost drunk, but not quite. Instead of going back to the hotel, they pulled up to an old warehouse outside of Iquitos. Two large men pulled Peter out of the car. Hollingbrook didn't seem to notice. A native man, whom Peter didn't know then, but now he knew as Tamba, escorted them into a makeshift lab. They hooked him up to some sort of torture machine. They put ideas into his head, even as they erased any memory of what they'd done.

The plan was elegant and tidy – a puppet master's masterpiece. Peter would go to New York. He would attend the Massive Dynamic Investor's Forum. During the Keynote address on Sunday afternoon, he would find Juan Parmas outside a maintenance closet on the floor above the auditorium. Parmas would give Peter a rifle he'd smuggled into the building, and Peter would go down the auditorium and wait. People would start screaming and running for their lives as ceiling collapsed in on them and the deadly vibrations cascaded down on them freezing everything and everyone in their path. When those people tried to exit the hall, Peter would mow them down whit the riffle.

Before Peter could quite digest the implications of that sickening plan, another memory came to him: a disjointed, unclear memory tainted by feelings of fear and rage; a memory of Walter crying and Astrid screaming.

Then another memory emerged: a memory of being grabbed from Olivia's hotel room by Hollingbrook, Tamba, and the same two thugs as the last time. They were taken to the same dark warehouse, but this time there were two of them and Olivia was taken into the lab first, while Peter was held in a small adjoining room. He remembered hearing her scream.

When they were done, Tamba carried her unconscious body into the side room and laid her on the floor. "It's your turn," he said.

"Why?" Peter demanded.

"I told you before, to save the world."

"If you told me before, I don't remember it."

"You wouldn't."

"Then it's no skin off your nose to tell me again."

"And it's no use, because you'll forget."

"Yeah, I probably will," Peter admitted. "But, if you tell me, I'll go willingly instead of fighting. Which will save you time and effort."

Tamba laughed, "You Europeans. You always want to KNOW. As if knowing something meant you mastered it. It doesn't. Often it means that whatever you're seeking has mastered you."

"Your ancient Mayan philosophy is great and all, but you and I both know you've bought into the European mindset. You have a cell phone. You sell drugs online. You're not a noble savage."

"You are the savages," Tamba spat back. "You come with your complicated bureaucracies, your governments, and your corporations, and your NGOs and you destroy everything you touch. And generation after generation of native has regretted the day they set eyes on you – the day they trusted the white man. Now my tribe is on the verge of letting the biggest and the most evil corporation of our time destroy our land and pollute our culture. The ones who live in peace on our homeland, they are too innocent to know the damage you will do. It is only one like me, one who knows the temptations, the seduction, of the European way of life who can save them.

"So, you're, what, nobly brainwashing people to kill scientists so Massive Dynamic will leave you alone?"

"Something like that," Tamba said with a small, impressed smile.

"How did you get Hass to work with you?"

"When I discovered Massive Dynamics interest in my people's land, I decided to learn all I could about the people behind the plot. Doctor Hass has been using this technique to brainwash Hollingbrook for years in a desperate attempt to get transferred back to the States. Andy is a brilliant scientist, but not much of a social engineer. He would never have conceived of the plan I've devised."

"And the plan is?" Peter asked.

"To kill the corporation and save the world," Tamba said simply.

"I want details," Peter insisted.

"Follow me into the lab, and you'll be given them," Tamba replied darkly. Peter could tell that that was all the native man was willing to say, so, true to his word, Peter walked into the lab of his own volition and allowed himself to be tortured and programed again. The plan was the same, only this time Olivia, not Parmas, was his co-conspirator.

**Monday 1:30 p.m.**

"Ok," Olivia said with a sigh as she hooked the walkie-talkie back on her belt. "They've just verified that four hundred and seventy eight people are in the auditorium for the keynote address."

"Let's see," Charlie said looking down at the clipboard Curtz, the head of Massive Dynamic Security, had given him. It had a dozen papers on it with varying usefulness. "Yeah, there were three hundred and four registered guests and one hundred and seventeen employees signed up to attend . . ."

"Add Nina Sharp, her assistant, the MC, the sound and lights guys, plus the keynote speaker and his assistant . . ." Olivia said. "There should be four hundred and twenty nine attendants."

"So where did the other fifty people come from?" Charlie asked.

"Employees who didn't register," Olivia guessed. "It's a closed building, no one could get in unless they were authorized – but no one was checking tickets at the door."

"So, we think the original plan was to have Parmas set off one of his bombs during this meeting," Charlie said, thinking allowed. "What if his accomplice was another Massive Dynamic employee?"

"That was always a possibility," Olivia said. "But I thought you talked to all his coworkers and associates."

"Either one slipped through the cracks, or maybe they pulled the wool over our eyes," Charlie said grimly. "We need to stop this whole thing, now."

"Nina will throw a fit," Olivia observed.

"Do I look like I give a damn?"

"Look, there is no evidence that anything is happening yet," Olivia said. "Why don't you go into the auditorium and look around, try to see if you can find Parmas's known associates."

"Yeah, Ok," Charlie said. "And what will you do?"

"I'll be casing the perimeter, looking for anything mildly suspicious."

"All right," Charlie said, nodding. "Call me if you see something."

"Will do. And you call me."

"If I have to," Charlie told her with a dry smile as he turned towards the auditorium to perform his part of the search.

Olivia smiled back and started heading the opposite direction. "You have to."

"Then expect to hear from me if I see something," Charlie told her as he reached the door to the huge room full of unsuspecting innocents, and Olivia disappeared down the hall.

**To be continued . . .**


	10. All Your Secretes

**Sunday 1:50 p.m.**

"Stop!" Peter screamed, as his eyes shot open and he tried to sit up. The thick straps across his chest held him down, but he strained against them as his brain, overwhelmed by the pain and the flood of memories, tried to make what he knew known. "It's Olivia! She's there and it'll happen any minute."

"Peter, Peter!" Walter said as he and Astrid turned away from their computers and hurried to the chair on which Peter was strapped. "Calm down, please!"

"Get me out!" Peter said, continuing to fight against his restraints. "We have to stop her now!"

"Peter, calm down!" Astrid ordered sharply. "We can't get you out unless you stop struggling!"

Gritting his teeth, Peter forced himself to lie still while Astrid unbuckled the straps that pined his wrists, chest, waist, and legs to the chair while Walter hovered nearby, nervously. As he waited, Peter closed his eyes and tried to form coherent thoughts that he could communicate to Astrid as quickly as possible. Everything depended on it.

"I am so sorry, son," Walter said. "I tried to come up with another solution, but, unable to test the procedures on human subjects, I could not guarantee any else would be effective. And, to be honest, I am concerned that some of my experiments caused brain damage in the rats. Fluffy just hasn't run the maze with the same vigor he used to."

"It's fine, Walter," Peter said dismissively as the essential information crystalized in his mind. "Where is Olivia? Is she still in New York?"

"I talked to her about an hour ago," Astrid said as she freed Peter's chest. As soon as she let go of the strap, he propped himself up on his elbows and waited impatiently while she unbuckled the one at his shins. "They were still searching Massive Dynamic for Parmas's accomplice."

"It's her," Peter said. "You have to call Charlie and get him to stop her."

"Peter, are you saying that Olivia is working with the Peruvian terrorists?"

"They to got her, like they got me," Peter said as Astrid pulled away the last strap and he was finally able to roll off the gurney. When his feet hit the ground, his knees gave way and he collapsed onto the floor. Even as he fell, he could feel the sudden change in position had turned his stomach, and when he hit the floor, he had to choke back the vomit.

"So, Olivia was brianwashed?" Astrid asked.

"If someone in Peru is doing it . . . yes, it is entirely possible," Walter said. "Why on earth did they go there?"

"To find out what happened to Peter," Astrid said. "I need to call Olivia."

"Son," Walter continued, kneeling down and putting his hand on Peter's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Peter gasped, still trying to suppress the gagging. "Can I have something to drink . . . something salty?"

"The procedure upset your electrolyte balance," Walter said. "That is why you crave salt."

"Walter, please," Peter insisted.

"I'll see what I can find," Walter said, jumping up and shuffling to the refrigerator.

Trying to ignore the pounding headache that was, undoubtedly the root of his nausea and vertigo, Peter pulled himself up to his feet and managed to walk towards Astrid, who was holding her phone to her ear and, apparently, waiting for someone on the other end to answer.

Peter slipped onto a stool and felt better once he was off his feet. He leaned against the lab table, resting his head on a cool metal bar from the shelving unit next to the table. The cold pressure felt good against his throbbing headache. When Astrid's impatient pacing turned his way, he caught her eye and asked, "She's not answering?"

"No," Astrid said anxiously. "Maybe she's in a meeting or something."

"Call Charlie," Peter said.

Astrid pulled her phone from her ear and hung up, then started dialing a new number. "What do I tell him?" she asked, once the number was entered and she was once again waiting for someone to answer."

"He has to bring Olivia here," Peter said. "Right away. She'll try to get away, she'll try to stay, but he can't let her. Whatever it takes, they have to get her out of that building."

Astrid nodded as she started speaking to Charlie on the other end of the line, "Agent Francis, this is Agent Farnsworth. We just finished performing the procedure to reintroduce Peter's memories and he thinks Olivia might be programed to set off one of Parmas's devices. . . ."

"Peter!" Walter said sharply, making Peter's headache spike. "I have something for you to drink."

"Thanks Walter," Peter said, taking the large plastic cup from his father and, unwisely, looking into it before he drank. "What is this?"

"Chicken soup," Walter said. "Campbell's. Its sodium content is astronomical, and should have your electrolyte balanced in no time. Plus, the noodles at the bottom will help settle your stomach."

"You put ice in it, Walter. The glass is cold."

"You look flushed, son," Walter replied. "I thought you'd like something cold to drink."

Peter sighed and took a drink. Either by accident or some sort of bizarre reasoning that only Walter could have performed, the ice-cold condensed soup was exactly what Peter craved. He drank the entire glass and swallowed the noodles without bothering to chew them.

"I actually feel a lot better," Peter said as he put the cup down. "Thanks, Walter."

The old man smiled at him and opened his mouth as if to say something, but Astrid interrupted.

"Peter," she said anxiously. "Charlie says Olivia isn't answering his calls. What do we do?"

~B~R~E~A~K~

**Sunday 2:05 p.m.**

"Ok, I see an open door," Charlie said as he jogged down a long hall one floor above the auditorium in Massive Dynamic's headquarters. On his right was a row of windows looking out to the street, only four stories below. On his left was a series of glass walls, windows, and doors that looked in on now-empty conference rooms. About thirty yards ahead of him was a dark wood door, probably leading to a maintenance closet, that was open just a crack. Ordinarily, Charlie would think nothing of an open maintenance closet door, but it was exactly as Peter described, which meant things were going to get very bad, very fast.

"Approach her carefully," Peter said, his voice coming clearly through the blue-tooth headset. "I don't know exactly what she's supposed to be doing – other than activating the machine. It's possible they have her programed to shoot anyone who tries to stop her."

"There's not a lot of cover here," Charlie said, lowering his voice as he approached. "How do you suggest I take her?"

"You got the Taser, right?"

"Yes."

"That's what I suggest," Peter replied. "Shoot first, ask questions later."

"What if your wrong?" Charlie asked as he looked down at the boxy black gun he'd commandeered from one of Massive Dynamic's security guards. "I might need Olivia's help to find the real bad guy."

"I'm not wrong."

"If you say so," Charlie said, taking a deep sigh as he carefully approached the open door.

Very carefully, Charlie started opening the dark wood door. In the dim light of the closet, he could see Olivia kneeling over what looked like a large cardboard box doing something intricate – though Charlie had no idea what that was.

"Olivia?" He asked cautiously, once he had the door open enough for him to step in.

"Give me a minute, will you?" she asked. Her voice sounded suspiciously flat. "I just want to finish this."

"Step away from the box," Charlie said authoritatively. She didn't move.

"Tase her!" Peter said insistently from the other end of the phone line. "She's not herself. You're putting everyone in danger."

Charlie ignored Peter's protests; instead his attention was focused on Olivia. "Liv, that's an order," Charlie said more insistently. "Step away now."

"Just let me finish," she said, not even turning to look at him.

"Step away or I will shoot," Charlie said.

"Take cover!" Peter yelled in his ear. "She'll shoot first."

Peter's warning was too late. He was still talking when Olivia started to turn with a motion that Charlie's gut told him was threatening. Charlie swung backwards, to the side of the door, and out of the line of fire a hairs breath before three bullets tore through the space he had just occupied and crashed through the windows across the hall.

A spider's web of cracks spread across the window, and a chilly New York autumn breeze whipped into the hall, but Charlie barely noticed. Peter was still talking, asking desperately for an update, but Charlie ignored the chatter. Years of training, first as a marine, then as Federal Agent, had taught him how to ignore all the distractions and focuses solely on the threat, while keeping a cool enough head to plan his next move.

Having fired her gun, Olivia would do one of two things. She must know that he'd dodged, so she could either come out of the closet and finish the job, or assume she'd scared him off and go back to work. In the first case, Charlie was at a great disadvantage. There was no cover, so his only chance of stopping her was to shoot her with the Taser before she managed to get off another shot with her gun. Unfortunately, bullets were much, much faster than Tasers.

After a tense moment in which he waited for one of his best friends to step out and shoot him, Charlie had to conclude that she'd returned her attentions to the freezing bomb she was about to set off.

Taking a deep breath and not sparing a thought for the fact that it could very well be his last, Charlie swung around the door frame and shot his Taser at the place where he knew she had been before she fired. It was a big risk, if he missed he'd be dead and there would be no one to stop her from killing hundreds of innocent people. But, if he didn't take the shot, or he took too long to take it, those things would happen anyways, and he'd know he could have stopped it.

The Taser's electrodes shot out of the boxy gun, trailing spiral wires. Only when they sunk into Olivia's back and he could see her spasm as the electricity coursed through her body did he exhale.

"She's down," he said as he put the Taser down and walked over to his unconscious partner slumped over the box she'd been so focused on.

"Thank God," Peter said, clearly relived. "What happened? Did I hear bullets?"

"You were right, she shot first," Charlie said as he performed the standard safety procedures to secure Olivia in custody, pulling her hands out from under her body and cuffing them behind her back. "But she was so focused on getting this thing operational so, when she thought she'd scared me away, she went right back to work." He carefully removed the Taser's electrodes.

"Did she activate the device?" Peter asked as Charlie pulled Olivia away from the bomb and laid her on the ground.

"I'm just looking at it now," Charlie said, turning his attention to the box.

It appeared to be a plain banker's box with the guts of a computer dumped haphazardly inside it. Perhaps Astrid or Peter could have looked at the mess of wires, circuit boards covered in multi-colored microchips, and the occasional light blinking white or red, and known what it was doing. Charlie just knew enough to know that the blinking was probably a bad thing. Snaking out of the box was a thick black cored that ended in what looked like an oversized earphone made of tin, nearly a foot in circumference.

"It's blinking, and vibrating," Charlie said, far more afraid of the device in front of him than he had been of Olivia with her gun. "I think she got it working."

"Then you've got to stop it," Peter said urgently. "We don't know how long it takes for one of Parmas's devices to destroy things, or kill people, you have to stop it right now."

"How?" Charlie asked, bewildered. "This thing's a mess of wires . . . There's not an off switch."

"Do you see the power source?" Peter asked.

"I . . . not that I recognize. But, I think I can feel the floor vibrating . . ."

"You have to break it," Peter said urgently.

"How?"

"Rip out the wires, Crack the motherboard, just break it!"

"OK," Charlie said nervously, reaching into the box with both hands and praying he didn't get electrocuted. He wrapped one large hand around a group of wires and braced the other against the largest circuit board and pulled. There were sparks, and he felt a jolt of electricity run through his body, but the lights went out and the floor stopped vibrating. "I think I got it."

"Dig through the wires and look for a power source," Peter said, though it was hard for Charlie to hear him over the pounding of his own heart. "It'll probably be a lithium battery, like the kind in you cell phone. I think it must be what Olivia connected to start the thing working, so it's probably close to the top."

Charlie looked and, without much trouble, found a battery like one used in cell phones hooked up to a series of wires. "Ok, should I take it out?"

"Yeah," Peter said. "You know how to do that?"

"That, at least, is in my repertoire," Charlie said, sliding the battery out and, after a moment of consideration, putting it on the floor far away from the box. "Now what?"

"Now I think it's safe to bring them in," Peter said.

"By them you mean . . ."

"The bomb and Olivia. Walter will pick it apart and put her back together."

~B~R~E~A~K~

Four hours later, Olivia – escorted by Charlie and Agent Robinson – came into the lab. She looked thoroughly spooked, almost in shock. The only other time Peter had seen her like that was when Ella had almost had her brain melted by the computer download. The situations were not dissimilar, he reasoned. They were both personal attacks using a subversive, practically undetectable, and seemingly unstoppable form of violence too close to home.

Her eyes quickly found his as she walked across the room and he held her gaze. She knew he understood how she felt – consciously or not, she was looking for empathy. He hoped that she could also look at him and see that everything would be OK.

"Ah, Agent Dunham!" Walter said delightedly. "It's so good to see you!"

"Hi Walter," Olivia replied. She was obviously not nearly as delighted.

"Any word on those extradition orders?" Charlie asked.

"Bryoles just sent out an e-mail," Astrid said. "The Iquitos police have Hass and Hollingbrook in custody. They're still looking for Tamba, both in Iquitos and in Lima."

"Somehow, I doubt they'll track him down," Peter grumbled.

"It'll depend," Olivia said. "Can he disappear into the rainforest and the native culture he wanted to protect, or is he as dependent on modern conveniences and technologies as we are?"

"Ah, a classic question that had plagued us since the Ancient Egyptians," Walter said. "Once we have experienced the benefits and indulgences of the modern world, can we turn back the clock? Can we, as individuals, as communities, return to an earlier state – a simpler time?"

"I'm gonna go with no," Charlie said as he and Olivia walked down the steps and into the lab proper, where Walter's deprograming machine was set up and waiting.

"So it seems," Walter agreed. "But there is precedent. Just look at the Amish, a community that lives beside, exposes their children too, and even utilizes in a public setting some of the advancements of the modern world. But, by and large, they set them aside and maintain a home life that, by comparison, is downright primitive."

"Because an HDTV is the mark of civilization," Peter commented. Turning to Olivia, he asked, "How you feeling?"

"Unsettled," she told him honestly. "I remember going off to search for Parmas's accomplice, then two hours later I wake up handcuffed in the back of Charlie's car. He's saying I almost killed an auditorium full of people."

"I think I know the feeling," Peter said with a soft smile. "But, no worries, Walter will have you remembering all your fun homicidal attempts in no time."

"Oh goody," Olivia replied. "What do I have to do?"

"Just get on the chair," Peter said, indicating the lab's operating chair, complete with wrist, chest, and leg restraints. "And try to relax."

"Because nothing says 'relax' like being strapped in a chair," Charlie noted. Olivia managed to throw him a weak smile as Astrid secured her right wrists to the chair's arms with thick Velcro straps. "But look, Liv," he continued. "I've got to go downtown and file my report. You gonna be OK here?"

"Yeah, I think so," she said, sounding uncertain.

"And you guys?" he asked, turning to Walter, who was setting up the computer and Peter, was preparing the neurotransmitter. "If she goes crazy, you'll be able to handle it."

"Oh, no worries Agent Francis," Walter said merrily. "Now that Agent Dunham is entirely restrained, I'm sure we'll be able to integrate her memories without a violent incident."

Charlie must not have put much stock in what Walter said, because he turned to Peter, obviously expecting an answer to that question.

"We've got it," Peter assured him.

"All right," Charlie said, then he turned to Olivia. "Liv, I'm going to give your sidearm to Broyles."

"Yeah," Olivia nodded, though it was clear her mind was focused on the procedure before her. "Sounds good."

"Ok, then," Charlie said. It was obvious that he felt uncomfortable leaving her in the lab under the circumstances, but he could not stay. "See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow," Olivia replied, once again offering him a reassuring smile. Charlie did not appear reassured, but he and Agent Robinson left.

"So, tell me," Olivia said to Peter as he rubbed iodine on her temple, preparing the spot of a neurotransmitter. "How bad is it?"

"This procedure?" Peter asked.

She nodded.

"Pretty damn bad," Peter admitted as he swabbed some iodine on her forehead in preparation for another neurotransmitter. "But it's worth it to know you're not a ticking time bomb."

"Or going to activate one," Olivia said soberly as she watched him put more iodine on the cotton cloth, and start preparing another sterile spot for another transmitter.

"You got the sweet job," Peter replied with a smile. "There's a good chance you would have lived through the attack, maybe even gotten away with it."

"You wouldn't have?"

"I was programed to shoot anyone who tried to escape that auditorium," Peter said. "Even if I wasn't frozen by the bomb, there's no way the NYPD would have let me out of that building alive. So, even though I still have a headache five hours later, I have to say it beats the alternative."

He smiled at her encouragingly, and she smiled back. Astrid walked over and arranged Walter's memory reintegration machine around Olivia's head, placing the various electrodes at the correct positions on her forehead, at her temples, and behind her ears. Peter stepped back and let her do the work.

A few minutes later, everything was ready. "Now, Agent Dunham, let me assure you that, though this is quite painful, it will not take very long."

"Walter, you didn't have to tell her that it was going to be painful," Peter scolded as he walked up the stairs to join his father.

The old scientist ignored his son. "Peter's reintegration took about twenty seconds, and he had been brainwashed twice."

"Does the reintegration really take longer if you've been brainwashed more than once?" Peter asked quietly as Water turned towards the computer and started entering the activation code for his reintegration program.

"Yes," Walter said calmly. "It only stands to reason that the more damage was done to the neural pathways, the longer it takes to fix it."

"So, say someone's been brainwashed pretty regularly for the past five years or so . . ." Peter started.

"Oh dear lord," Walter chuckled, assuming Peter was discussing an absurd and hypothetical situation. "That man's brain would be a slice of Swiss cheese. I doubt he could ever have the memories properly reintegrated – the attempt would probably kill him."

"Poor Hollingbrook," Peter said softly, though his pity for the Massive Dynamic suit was quickly supplanted by his deep empathy for Olivia.

"Are you ready, Astroid?"

"Yes," Astrid said.

"Then here we go."

Walter flipped the switch and Olivia screamed. It was a gut-twisting scream, the kind that made Peter's blood hot as his protective instincts urged him to jump over the railing, knock aside the equipment, and save the girl. But he held himself back, gritting his teeth and gripping the iron guard on the upper level of the lab until his knuckles were white.

"There!" Walter said sharply. His voice sounded urgent, as if Olivia's screams were unnerving him as well. "Neural patterns have stabilized. I'm ending the treatment."

Walter flipped his switch again, and, almost as suddenly as they'd started, Olivia's screams stopped.

"Airstream," Walter called. "How are Agent Dunham's vital signs?"

"Stressed," Astrid replied. "But returning to normal."

"Why isn't she waking up?" Peter asked anxiously.

"She is processing the reintegrated information," Walter said. "It may take a while."

"You were unconscious for almost a half hour," Astrid informed him.

"Was I, now?" Peter asked rhetorically as he headed towards the lab's refrigerator. "Why don't you untie her? I'll go get her soup ready."

"What if she's violent when she wakes up?" Walter asked, sounding anxious. "Agent Dunham is a skilled fighter and . . ."

"And I'm pretty sure you have nothing to worry about," Peter said from the back of the lab, where he was pouring a chilled can of condensed chicken noodle soup into a cappuccino mug. "Astrid's gone through combat training too, and I've won my share of fights."

"Peter wasn't violent when he woke up," Astrid pointed out as she started undoing the strap holding down Olivia's right leg. "Why do you think Olivia would be?"

"As a scientist, I feel we should keep the subject controlled until we learn the results of our experiment."

"She's not a subject," Peter told his father testily. "She's our friend, and we need to treat her with respect."

"She's a highly trained warrior who's been programed to kill people," Walter countered. "I don't think a little caution is undue."

"But didn't you just un-program her?" Peter asked as he carried the mug of chilled soup and a bottle of Advil across the lab.

"We did, yes . . ." Walter started.

"And aren't you brilliant?" Peter asked, flashing his father a smile and he passed.

"Well, I don't like to brag," Walter chuckled, "But I am on the higher scale of the . . ."

"Then we have nothing to worry about," Peter said definitively as he set the soup and Advil down on the cart next to the chair where Olivia was lying.

"But, Peter," Walter started.

"Walter," Astrid interjected in a perky but authoritative voice, "Didn't you want to run diagnostics to compare Peter and Olivia's reintegration results?"

"Yes, I think if we can analyze the similarities and the difference, we may be able to distinguish a pattern of scaring that would, in the future, allow us to determine if a person has been programed using a simple MRI scan."

"You anticipate encountering this type of brain programing again?" Astrid asked as they walked to the front of the lab, where the lab's computer system was still analyzing the data they'd collected.

"Well, you never know," Walter reasoned.

Peter stayed where he was, waiting for Olivia to wake up. He listed to Walter exclaim his excitement at seeing strong patterns in the primary motor cortex. And he found it interesting that Olivia, apparently, had far more activity in her Broca's Area, while his Wernicke's Area was more active. But, if there were any implications of that discrepancy, he didn't have long to think about them. Olivia was starting to stir.

"Hey," Peter said softly, putting his hand on her arm: either to hold her down if she appeared panicked and violent, or help her up if she seemed calm but disoriented. "Welcome back to the land of the only-slightly-insane."

Olivia took a deep breath and her eyes snapped open. "Peter," she said very seriously, looking into his eyes with fixed determinations. "The bomb."

"Charlie stopped you, remember?" Peter asked.

"Yeah," she said, nodding slightly and straining to get up. Peter helped her. "It's just all so surreal," Olivia admitted as she swung her legs off the chair so she was sitting on the side.

"I know the feeling," Peter assured her. "I also know had bad your headache is. Here," he said handing her a Dixie cup with two Advil in it. "It didn't take away the pain," Peter told her as she popped the pills in her mouth. "But they did dull it enough so I could function. And you can wash it down with this."

"Cold chicken soup?" Olivia asked, looking up at him skeptically as she took the mug.

"I know," Peter told her with a chuckle. "But it actually helps. Walter says the salt balances the electrolytes, which were, apparently, unbalanced by the electric shocks. And the noodles will settle your stomach."

Olivia devoured the cup of soup, just as Peter had, and when she was done her eyes looked a little brighter and her skin appeared a little less pale.

"Feelin' better?" Peter asked.

"I suppose," she said. "You weren't kidding about the headache. How long does it last?"

"If mine starts to fade, I'll let you know."

"Oh joy," she replied with a sardonic smile.

"Count your blessings," Peter told her. "Rachel is on her way over to pick you up and, as I understand it, she made you dinner."

"I hope you mean she's ordered dinner," Olivia said. "Rachel and cooking are not a good combo."

"This coming from the woman who told me she usually has cereal for dinner," Peter commented.

"I know my limitations," Olivia said. "And, unfortunately, I know my sister's as well."

Peter smiled. "It's good to be back, huh?"

"Yeah," Olivia said, almost hesitantly. "There's just niggling little thing I'd like to clear up."

"Really?" Peter asked. "It all looks pretty tidy to me. We know why Parmas planted the bomb, we know why I attacked Walter. We know they're not going to pull off another attack – at least, not the same kind of attack."

"But I don't know why you went down there in the first place," Olivia said. "When this whole thing started to unravel, there were bigger questions. But like you said, it's all tidy now and so that one little, nagging question looks huge."

"I told you why I went down," Peter said. "Nina Sharp—"

"Is a person you loath," Olivia interjected. "You wouldn't do a favor for her out of the goodness of your heart. So why say yes? Did you need the money?"

"No," Peter said with a sigh. "Money wasn't involved. I owed her, that's all."

"So, she did you a favor before? Mind if I ask what it was?"

"Yeah, I do, actually," Peter said assertively, though not angrily.

"Really?" Olivia asked, surprised.

"It's the kind of thing an FBI Agent shouldn't think to much about."

"I see," Olivia said. She was clearly thinking a lot about it, so he wasn't surprised when, a moment later, she said. "Clair Williams. You traded the trip to Pure for the location of the secret INtREPUS lab where Clair Williams was being healed."

Peter smiled softly, "If that answer will let you sleep at night, take it."

"Some day, Peter Bishop, you will tell me all your secrets," she told him playfully.

His smile expanded. "And won't that be fun."

**The End**


End file.
